


Leaving a Mark

by Ki_ru



Series: The Ruined T-Shirts Trilogy [3]
Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Awkwardness, Banter, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Depression, Dirty Talk, Doc is tired, Drama & Romance, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Sledge is tired, Unreliable Narrator, nearly everyone who looks at Smoke for longer than five minutes is tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-04 21:37:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17906126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ki_ru/pseuds/Ki_ru
Summary: The first two chapters follow Jamie Porter, who is decent at his job, gets along alright with his colleagues, likes his family well enough and is overall content with his life. He's alsoextremelyadept at denial and self-destructive behaviour. When a newbie gets assigned to his patrol, a few things change - and isn't there a saying that things have to get worse before they get better?The last two focus on Smoke, newly recruited into the elusive organisation called Rainbow, full of hope and starry-eyed until he comes across someone who he was not prepared to meet again, but he'll be damned if he lets this get in the way of his future. Right? ...right?Part of a series but functions as a standalone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cheloneh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheloneh/gifts).



Jamie Porter is decent at his job.

In an office job, that’d mean he completes his work mostly on time, doesn’t distract his co-workers too much and provides satisfactory results. In the SAS, it means he’s still alive, has seen his fair share of missions and hasn’t killed any friendlies on duty. Well, yet.

His résumé on paper is solid though nothing inspiring: adequate marks in school, only excelling in biology, chemistry and physics, enlistment in the army, barely passing the gruelling tests for the SAS, stationing in Belfast, a few successful missions as well as an infamous career as boxer and then a whole lot of bugger all. Next to no terrorists to hunt except for a few eye-wateringly incompetent splinter groups which could’ve been taken down by an unarmed group of blind primary school children.

Especially in the Regiment, his résumé won’t do anything but collect dust until some higher-ups decide it’s time to check to where the valuable tax money is disappearing, only to find that it’s being used to pay Jamie’s colleagues for continuously risking their lives for world peace and could easily be a figure higher, so they close the lid faster than anyone can mention the word _increase_ and pretend to never have checked at all. It’s not that Jamie feels underpaid, quite the opposite, he’s being rewarded generously for diddling around – but the stories he hears, the men with whom he’s sometimes confronted, they deserve all the money the country can spare.

No, his identity on paper might as well belong to a completely different person, what _really_ counts is his reputation. And Jamie’s reputation is horrendous. He’s at a point in life where nobody asks to smell his water or coke bottle anymore even though they’re conspicuously full after having been previously opened.

When there’s something, anything that interests him, he’s a model student, focused and quick to learn, curious, ambitious. He breezed through the counter-terrorist part of his SAS training, managed to laugh in his interrogators’ faces, took to submachine guns as if they were his children. Whenever he’s allowed to work in their lab, he plans and ponders and displays a deep-seated creativity worrying to the people around him. He boxes as passionately as he prattles on about rare diseases.

Most things don’t interest him. And when he’s forced to engage in anything he doesn’t care for, he makes sure his surroundings know.

Ultimately, he got unlucky. Stuck in a dead end place with dead end colleagues who have dead end hobbies, replacing some poor dude who’s bought into the dream chick flicks propagate and left the Regiment to start a family, be there for his wife, get a job with fewer benefits but longer life expectancy. If his predecessor genuinely thought children were a preferable alternative to his Belfast posting, Jamie should’ve realised something was up.

It’s suffocating. Jamie secretly relishes each and every deviation from the norm, even if it means undergoing more training and being yelled at and borderline tortured by some dude with a superiority complex. His big mouth helps him through those situations even if he knows it gets worse when he talks back – nevertheless, it feels like a victory to make veins pop and faces contort.

When the announcement comes in, it’s surprising. At first, Jamie thinks it’s a punishment for an impulsive blade who’s being sent to the figurative tundra to cool off (he still hasn’t figured out whether he himself was punished or merely drew the short straw), but soon his patrol finds out why they’re gaining a new member. The guy is young. And it’s not like ‘wow he’s young’ young, it’s more ‘holy shit who did he suck off to get here’ young. Only you can’t suck someone off and end up in a highly specialised organisation like the SAS. If that’d been possible, Jamie wouldn’t be in Belfast right now.

He comes down with a nasty case of having his stomach pumped out and spends two days away from his patrol, right when the rookie arrives. Bad timing, made even worse when he finds out everyone _hates_ the new guy. They call him a twat, haughty and elitist and rude, a typical overachiever and teacher’s pet, the kind of guy who wouldn’t let you copy his answers during an important test. Jamie is immediately intrigued. It’s something new, at least.

When they meet for the first time, the rookie is sitting at a table by himself, an old mp3 player on the surface in front of him and his eyes downcast. He’s larger than Jamie expected, broad shoulders and definitely taller than him, only the graceful, boyish features of his face betraying his real age. Jamie sits down opposite of him and waits until the guy has noticed him, turned down his music and looked up, all of which takes suspiciously long. “How old are you?”, he asks with genuine curiosity.

Instantly, attentive eyes turn stony. He’s heard this one before, knows how it goes, assumes Jamie’s here to berate, ‘politely’ advise, belittle, question him. He still answers, which is a good sign – he hasn’t given up completely. “Twenty-two.”

His accent is peculiar, like it was carefully unlearned and then only partly reverted. “When did you join the army?”

“I didn’t.”

That’s all he has to say on the matter. Jamie is involuntarily impressed since these kinds of recruitments are about as rare as leprechauns, yet this kid must’ve done something to draw attention to himself. “What kind of field experience do you have?” Keep him on his toes, make him think Jamie really is trying to prove to him he’s not fit for the SAS.

It seems to be working, the lad is allowing annoyance to tint his voice. “Enough.”

“Have you shot guns before?”

The question is nothing but insulting and the accent that Jamie can finally place as Yorkshire, thickens. “Yes. I’ve gone through the same training every single one of _you_ guys goes through.”

“Do you know how to shoot accurately with a sniper rifle?”

He seems about done with their conversation, obviously tired of having to defend himself over and over again, weary of being doubted and judged. “Yes.”

“Fuck, can you teach me? I’m utter shite.”

A second passes during which the kid doesn’t understand. Jamie just flashes him a wide, friendly smile, satisfied with himself. That’s how humour works – building up expectations and shattering them. Finally, a twitch of lips, the guarded expression softens and he nods. “Sure. I’m Mark.” He gets it, accepts Jamie’s peace offering.

“I’m Jamie, Jamie Porter, infamous throughout all of SAS for my terrible puns and known as a grindstone on which rookies are honed. That is to say: if they survive a mission with me, they’re _good_.”

Mark doesn’t bat an eye over his introduction. “Can I call you James? My dad’s called Jamie.”

“Really? To avoid confusion?” The hesitation tells him everything he needs to know, the ‘no, my dad’s a gobshite’ clearly telegraphed. “Of course, I’ve got other nicknames as well though. You know Reservoir Dogs? I was known as Mr Pink for a while cos I lost a bet and had to dye my hair hot pink. As it turns out – not exactly my colour.”

“Never seen it.”

“Yeah, you were probably too busy working your damned arse off to get good marks.” The kid wants to reply, but Jamie continues: “Am I right? Or completely off the mark?” Again, no notable reaction. He tries again: “You should watch it though, it’s fucking excellent, _mark_ my words.”

At last, Mark catches on as indicated by a roll of his eyes and Jamie just cackles triumphantly. “You’re terrible.”

“My infamy is earned, not granted. I warned you. Wanna head to the shooting gallery right away so you can kick my arse?”

Mark nods wordlessly. He’s thawed, that much is obvious, but Jamie hasn’t even begun to work his charm on the kid. When he’s done with him, he’ll know how he ended up in SAS, what his future plans are, whether he knows what hydrochloric acid does to your skin and all that. He’s part of Jamie’s patrol and he’ll be damned if he allows his colleagues to sour Mark’s experiences right from the start.

 

~*~

 

He’s a breath of crisp afternoon air, the first sip of cool water after a night out, a scoop of soft ice cream on one of the four days of summer the UK gets every year. He exudes an aura of safety, rests by Jamie’s side like a benevolent giant watchdog, always aware of his surroundings and yet rarely interacting with them. Most of the time, he’s listening to music – whether he’s working out, shooting, solving absolutely terrifying-looking equations or reading university-level books in his free time, his silver player follows him wherever he goes.

Jamie once asks him what kind of music he listens to and is offered one of the earbuds, after which Mark rapidly switches through songs to give him an idea of the mixture of genres he enjoys. At first, the aggressive style and the screaming put him off, but once he looks past that, it’s chaotic melodies and irregular rhythms and an emotional, forceful performance. Some of it sounds like progressive rock on drugs, some punkish, some delves into electronic music and even metal. None of it sounds like anything Jamie would’ve guessed based on everything he knows about the newbie, yet now that he knows, it’s strangely fitting. Mark’s interests are varied, precise and odd. Also, there’s more to him than appears at first glance.

When he thinks about it, Jamie’s not happy. It’s not that he hates his job – that’d be sad since he worked so hard to get here –, it’s just… he’d imagined something different. More glamour. More chaos. More scrambling for ideas, spontaneity winning over bureaucracy, resourcefulness being rewarded. Instead, he guards a country which barely needs him, hanging around with people who might as well be twenty years older judging by their world views and lack of ambition and general resignedness. It’s no wonder they reject Mark. He’s their opposite: young, always willing to learn, hard-working and determined. It reminds them of what they’re supposed to be and they’d prefer to stay ignorant.

In a way, Jamie’s patrol members are like family. And not in a positive, fond kind of way. He’s stuck with them, has to put up with their moods and attitudes, has to keep morale high and drama low. They’ve formed a love-hate relationship where they learnt how to deal with each other out of necessity to the point where it’s natural to be in each other’s company whether they enjoy it or not. Mark doesn’t fit in and Jamie knows exactly why: he refuses to be lured into complacency. He doesn’t accept this dead end; there’s no doubt he’ll manage to climb ranks and change his posting some time soon. It seems Jamie gave in too easily.

Maybe it was neither a punishment nor misfortune. Maybe it was a test and he failed.

There are other reasons why Mark doesn’t become more popular once he’s settled in though. Jamie invites him out for drinks one evening and is met with the one answer which can single-handedly crush all hopes of that promotion, an invitation to someone’s inner circle or just his entire social life in general: “I don’t drink.”

Devastating. Jamie prods and pokes, promises Mark earnestly he’ll pay for every glass of water and chug every beer the other lads are inevitably going to buy him, but only earns shakes of the head and a polite ‘no thank you’. He’s talked to Mark enough to know that politeness is his way of telling people to fuck off. So he does.

None of them know how long Mark is going to stay with them, so Jamie tries his best to pour oil on troubled waters, mediate between the two parties. Mark watches his attempts with confused amusement (as he does with most of Jamie’s actions) and the rest of their patrol react with derision. Leaving out Jamie and Mark, it consists of Mitchell, Grader and Amcott, and there are more heroic stories about the three than he can count. They’re good people. They’ve simply spent too much time in the same place to welcome change now.

 

_u busy?_

The uproarious laughter around him does nothing to quell Jamie’s inner conflict. The dim display of his phone highlights the words, they themselves and their meaning are incandescent and burn into his retinas. The message has been sent half an hour ago, the vibrations too soft for Jamie to notice them – force of habit had him check his phone later and discover this revelation. After all his invitations, this is how he contacts him? It looks like a booty call, lewd only without context. Two words. That’s all he gets. Hell, one of them isn’t even spelled out as if Mark was paying per letter. He doesn’t know how to reply.

It’s a standard evening, meaning Jamie will spend half of it trying to get drunk and the other half trying to get laid. The sex of his potential partner depends almost entirely on whether any of the three stay to join him in his endeavours or not – more often than not, he prefers men but goes for women if somebody’s watching. He doesn’t need the headaches or the mocking. Whatever pub they go to, at least one of them complains, the same with the drinks they order. It’s a dog eat dog atmosphere, hostility mixed with familiarity, their conversations quick, precise and rehearsed during one of their previous evenings. They don’t surprise each other anymore.

Amcott leans over Jamie’s shoulder to openly stare at the screen. Jamie isn’t bothered enough to hide it, even though it says _Mark_ quite clearly at the top. “Oh, is your boyfriend lonely?” Amcott nudges him with wiggling eyebrows and the other two catch on straightaway.

“What, is he asking you to hold his hand? You sure you’re not gonna get arrested? He looks like jailbait.”

The only one not joining in is Mitchell who seems nothing more than resentful: “He’s a stuck-up bitch, not a minor. No excuse for his childish bragging, lad’s acting like he’s too good for us.”

“If I’d achieved half of what he did in twice the time, I’d be bragging too”, Jamie tells him tiredly and decides to just call. He’s better with words when he doesn’t have to write them down, less decision time and easier to claim denial. While he holds his phone to his ear, the others continue arguing.

“Spoiled brat. He’ll be the first to cave in under pressure, I’m telling you.”

“Yeah, he acts all strong and muscle but the uni types are useless in battle.”

Normally, Jamie would try to be pleasant and concede their bullshit, turn Mark down, only his inside voice takes over. Sometimes, a voice in Jamie says _fuck it_ and barfs up all the things he’s trying to suppress – it’s not as dramatic as it sounds, nowhere near another personality, but a noticeable lowering of inhibitions. It gets him laid and in trouble, often prompts raucous laughing fits and so he rarely tries to control it. It makes him seem witty, charming, a lot more charismatic than he is and developed some time into his stay in Belfast. Maybe it’s a defence mechanism against premature mental ageing or maybe he simply changed over the years. He secretly calls his voice OJ, Other Jamie. Even he himself thinks it’s lame.

“You know, I’d rather have him be my fucking squad leader than any of you incompetent farts, you fucking shot yourself in the foot once, you wanker”, OJ spews at Grader.

“James?”, a voice says in his ear, hesitant. Whoops. He forgot he was actually already _calling_ Mark.

“Hey, babe”, OJ answers confidently, “I’m absolutely not busy, want me to come over right away?” He hears Amcott scoff next to him.

A slight pause. “Uh, sure. Do you even know where -”

“Alright, see you!” He hangs up and smiles sweetly at his mates. “Have a wonderful evening, ladies, see you the day after tomorrow.”

Once he’s left the oppressive air of the pub as well as the pointed remarks behind, he texts Mark for details and receives nothing more than an address at almost the other end of town. He doesn’t know why he abandoned the others, if he’s sabotaging himself to create an outside motivation for leaving Belfast or if he’s actually sick of them. On the way, he buys a cheap yet fancy-looking bottle of wine as a joke but passes up flowers as too cheesy. One highly informative cab ride later during which he hears all about how immigrants are simultaneously stealing all jobs _and_ living off of welfare, the clever bastards, he arrives in front of Mark’s flat in a neighbourhood that would give him the chills even during daytime.

Mark opens his door to find him taking a generous swig from the bottle directly before letting out a thunderous burp. “I got you some wine”, Jamie says unnecessarily and points, in case it wasn’t clear which wine he meant.

“I don’t drink”, Mark repeats with endless patience.

“Oh yeah.” He knows this. “I’ll fucking drink to that.” Another big gulp. “So, what’s up?”

“Are you sure you’re not busy?” Jamie shakes his head, thinks again, nods. For some reason, Mark looks increasingly entertained. “Good. I’m hungry.”

“So the booty call was a tummy call, I see how it is. Well shit on my dick, I’m fucking starving myself, and I can cook a mean stir fry.”

“Can you really?”

They’re still standing in the doorway but Mark seems entirely unbothered, surprisingly open and friendly and Jamie is suddenly sure he was right in coming here. “No”, he answers or maybe it’s OJ. Sometimes the edges are a little blurred. Mark smiles and it’s the first time Jamie’s seen him with a full smile, nothing holding it back, and it’s so stunningly pure that he forgets how to talk and just stands there shakily, mouth agape.

“We can look up a recipe along the way. Come on.” Quickly, he puts on boots and a light jacket before stepping outside, locking the door.

“Where are we going?”

“Shopping. I don’t have anything.”

So they make their way to a supermarket still open after eleven, their pace excruciatingly slow because Jamie’s on the lookout for a place where he can piss safely and also because he won’t be able to bring the wine into the shop, thus he drinks it while they talk. OJ’s having a fantastic time trying to make Mark laugh, recounting the incident where Jamie accidentally mooned one of his superiors, explaining some of the nicknames Mark’s come across, reminiscing about all the times he triggered the fire alarm with his experiments.

At this, Mark perks up and questions him in detail, so much that Jamie has to take over with all the boring specifications, his goals and achievements so far. They end up in the diaper aisle, arguing about Jamie’s previous findings for an hour before realising they haven’t made any progress concerning their meal. Mark whips up a recipe and they gather all ingredients in record time while Jamie tells him excitedly about messed up parasites all around the world. When they arrive at the register, he’s raving on about zombie ants and the poor cashier looks genuinely horrified.

“- fucking just walk up the tree to bloody _die_ there, forever frozen in death. No fair fight, they get fucking bugger all in return for allowing a thoroughly fucked up species to continue to exist. Can I get some fags with that?”

“Could I see your ID?”, the cashier asks back bravely. Jamie doesn’t know which one of them looks more intimidating, him gesturing like a lunatic or Mark who’s ten centimetres taller and visibly buff, then he remembers they’re buying spring onions. He doubts anyone could seem imposing with spring onions in their shopping cart. He wrestles with his wallet and notices too late he provided the wrong card, though the young man seems satisfied. “Thank you for your service”, he says and hands back Jamie’s military ID.

“Oh shut up, I’m not lifting a fucking finger. Dickhead like me? Not the reason you can sleep peacefully at night.” They leave the supermarket and Jamie’s still grumbling over it. “Fucking teens watching too much shitty American TV. Thank you for your service my arse.”

“Why are you in Belfast?”

The way the question sounds, there is no doubt it’s a punishment in Mark’s eyes. Jamie mulls it over for a few moments. “Was told I was a replacement. It happened before the fucking treaty, before it got so bloody dull, so it wasn’t what you were thinking. Though I did get demoted at some point.”

“Why?”

“For endangering myself, they called it. If you complete a mission successfully and someone on your side dies, you’re a fucking hero and the dead guy’s a martyr, but if you only barely fail to kill yourself on duty, it’s a disgrace. Maybe they were worried I’d do it again, so they put me in this shitty place and now hope to God I fucking stay here for the rest of my active duty.”

A short silence during which Jamie realises he’s never talked about the incident this freely, not with friends, not with family, not with his work family. There are rumours he never bothered to correct instead, but Mark seems intent on hearing it from him directly. “Do you want to?”, his companion finally asks.

“What, fucking kill myself or stay here? I think both kinda amount to the same bloody thing, don’t you?”

Mark just nods. “I won’t stay here. It’d be a waste. And I think you’re overqualified as well.”

“Thanks, babe, you’re just too sweet”, OJ takes over for a quip that solidifies Mark’s nickname forever. Somewhere along the way, they’d become more than just colleagues and the realisation is air, water, ice cream, watchdog. He’s sober enough to know something meaningful is happening and it started out with two words, five letters. The moment where Mark decided to contact him instead of the other way around. He feels like he’s being let in on a significant secret.

 

~*~

 

The gap widens. Gradually, like tectonic planes drifting apart, forming different and new continents ultimately harbouring entirely new species which evolved from the same ancestors. There’s still enough he and his patrol have in common, topics he can’t or won’t discuss with Mark – you don’t spend years of your life with the same people without rubbing off on each other, without establishing a weirdly symbiotic or parasitic relationship, without a weak magnetic pull drawing you together as long as no one actively resists. But the change is noticeable, becomes undeniable and crystal clear the day Jamie’s nan dies.

He loves his nan. The rest of his family oscillates between infuriating and tolerable; if he’s honest, his work family isn’t all that different. His parents are honest people with strong opinions which just happen to contradict Jamie’s, his sister is unbearably vain and his brother an annoying know-it-all who’d _rejoice_ if he knew a fraction of how Jamie feels about Belfast. Still, he looks forward to seeing them from time to time. Distance does wonders for strained family relations.

His nan was the only one who didn’t give him shit for enlisting. Where his parents reacted with outrage and a silent treatment lasting exactly the time they needed to realise he was serious, nan secretly told him stories of the wars she witnessed and of his grandpa, dashing in his uniform, brave and ready to fight for what he believed in. She also told him to be safe which he disregarded immediately after joining up by intentionally drilling his hand to escape a disagreeable training session. The scar is still there. Nan isn’t.

It’s stupid. He’s an adult and allowed feelings, even as a member of the SAS, yet instead of letting Mitchell, Grader and Amcott know – which he would usually do –, he bottles up and bottoms up. That day, they’re training as a troop and everything is the _worst_. The captain behaves like a brain amputated ape, yelling and dishing out punishments like he’s getting paid for it (which he probably is), Mark has to put up with some snide remarks from other patrols and Jamie’s shooting is atrocious. He’s frustrated and fed up and _this_ close to just walking out when he’s given an admittedly well-deserved bollocking constituting the last straw. Without breaking eye contact, he takes out his knife and stabs himself in the thigh, pulls it out again for effect.

For a few seconds, there’s blissful, serene absence of noise. No one’s shooting anymore, it’s a collective holding of breath. At first, there’s nothing more than a slight itch until the pain is loud enough to fill the entire room, though its call feels more like a natural catastrophe, beautiful and terrifying and impossible to confuse with any man-made emotions. It’s raw and primal and soothes something deep inside him, it’s like medication, erasing the symptom of wanting to crush something, _anything_ with his bare hands. He doesn’t feel like strangling the captain anymore. He feels like…

He feels like dying.

Why did he think this was a good idea again?

His eyes are watering even before his superior starts screaming at him. His trousers soak up an impressive amount of blood, just not enough to prevent it from running down his leg, uncomfortably warm and wet on his skin and in his shoe and there it is, he’s bleeding all over the cold stone tiles now and will probably have to lick it all up later, judging by how fucking _furious_ the captain is. He’s dancing in his rage, his words distorted and meaningless anyway because the message is clear: what the fuck is Jamie doing?

And he asks himself: _What the fuck_ am _I doing?_

Because Mark’s looking at him now with sorrow in his eyes, as if Jamie was an ornate, intricately crafted trinket which Mark just dropped and he knows he can’t put it back together but he hopes for nothing less. He can’t stand his gaze, it turns the entire situation from an amusing story his colleagues might tell their mates in the pub someday to the sort of thing that makes smartly dressed people all in black nod knowingly and say shit like ‘yes, we should’ve noticed, he’s always had those tendencies’. He feels sick.

While the captain draws a much needed breath, Jamie butts in: “I’d love to hear it, sir, but I don’t want to use up more blood bags than necessary.”

He’s dismissed with a tirade that makes him wonder whether he just committed career suicide. He hasn’t heard of anyone being thrown out of the Regiment _yet_. Pride forces him to hobble away under the watchful gaze of his captain. He doesn’t dare look at Mark.

It doesn’t matter because he visits him at the end of the day anyway, a calming presence even without speaking, inspecting the bandage wordlessly and waiting until Jamie looks at him. Mark turns off his music, folding the cable so it doesn’t tangle, and puts his player on the bedside table. He’s never done that before unless he had to, literally never switched it off for the sole reason of merely _talking_ to Jamie and the gesture robs him of his voice for a moment. Mark doesn’t mind. He’s still waiting.

“My nan died last night”, Jamie explains without really explaining anything.

A beat. “Did you like her?” It’s an absurd question. Would he have reacted this way if she’d meant nothing to him? Jamie nods. “How did she die?”

“Fell. Broke something essential, I don’t even remember what.” He wants to keep talking, tell Mark all about her, how young and independent she still was, how he spent a large part of his childhood over at her house, how _unfair_ life could be, but he’s getting choked up again and this time he can’t blame a knife in his leg because he’s still coasting on drugs. _I’d visit her every time I had extended leave. She’s the only reason I looked forward to birthdays and Christmas_. The painkillers are turning him sappy.

“A lab assistant complained to me earlier how you keep requesting fluorine and whether you’re that intent on ridding yourself of this particular branch of the Regiment”, Mark says conversationally.

It doesn’t come as a surprise – Jamie’s aware of Mark’s eccentricities by now, hasn’t missed the way he carefully angles his body so that people don’t accidentally touch him, has noticed his aversion to topics like relationships, sex, emotions. He’s curious about some things, though it always feels clinical, scientific. It’s one of the reasons why he often rubs others up the wrong way: he fails to understand why certain remarks are considered extremely rude, why he shouldn’t switch topics just because he’s not interested anymore. If Jamie was looking for support, he’s not going to find it here. Mark is the perfect person to inform about the various types of contact poison or the history of napalm, whether it’s three in the morning and they’re in the gym of all places or whether it’s just after work and they’re ordering Chinese from the worst restaurant in town just because they get a bottle of plum wine for free and it’s the only alcoholic beverage Mark can be persuaded to drink. He’s just not someone for a pat on the back and a friendly ear.

Jamie inhales deeply and successfully fights down the tightness in his chest. Sure, if he wants to know about shenanigans instead of Jamie’s nan, he can do that. Might be a welcome distraction. “Have you ever heard of FOOF?” Mark shakes his head but the corners of his mouth lift a tiny bit – he can tell from Jamie’s voice alone that he won’t regret asking about it. “Okay, so you take oxygen – fair enough – and slap some fluorine on it at about 700°C. You know fluorine? Extremely reactive, melts bones and has a history of blowing up and/or poisoning poor innocent scientists? Trust me, the result is a _lot_ worse.”

And he tells Mark how dioxygen difluoride causes violent explosions even at -180°C and can set fire to stuff normal people would already consider well burnt, say, _ashes_ for example. Mark seems thoroughly entertained and as usual, Jamie strives to make him laugh as much as possible and at some point he realises what Mark is doing. The epiphany interrupts his constant flow of dramatic accounts, startles him into silence. He thinks back to two words, five letters, a gesture so seemingly insignificant he was offended at first but a gesture which carried a stunning weight of meaning. This, too, is an outstretched hand and Jamie takes it without thinking because that’s what he _does_ , he humours Mark and doesn’t even think twice whether _Mark_ is really the one being considerate right now. Being supportive. _Caring_.

Mark’s unperturbed by the interruption, his eyes soft, and Jamie realises he’s never known anyone who offered him this much while taking so little. He decides to hold on to the hand.

And he continues talking.

When Mark has to go, he leaves his mp3 player in Jamie’s care overnight, a silent promise to check back the next morning.


	2. Chapter 2

The Regiment is allowed to celebrate Christmas with their loved ones – at least the blades who aren’t out on a mission, which by default excludes fucking Belfast. They get sent home early a day before Christmas Eve, undeserved bonus in hand, and Mark talks him into a gruelling workout after which Jamie’s muscles are on fire and he’s _this_ close to asking whether he can be carried home. They know they’re not going to see each other for a few days, so there are a few last minute arrangements: how’s the reception, will they survive their respective families, did they buy all the gifts, when are they coming back and when will they see each other again. It’s domestic in a comforting kind of way and Jamie packs his things with a smile on his face.

He’s looking forward to a change in his daily life, even if it means enduring pointed looks and backhanded compliments and even if his nan will be noticeably missing. Mark’s absence is a necessary evil but since they’ve been spending ridiculous amounts of time in each other’s presence, they’ll live. He’s permeated almost every aspect of Jamie’s life by now though his company hasn’t gotten much easier. Recently, he’s begun to pose riddles, describes situations in which Jamie has to decide the correct course of action – infiltrate, blend in, charge, wait, the list is endless and Mark reacts with satisfaction, if not _pride_ , whenever Jamie adds a new one. The scenarios stimulate his mind and distract him a little from the dullness at work, so he happily entertains them. They keep getting more convoluted, requiring a creativity with which Jamie’s thoughts are unfamiliar yet which they’re eager to achieve. He doesn’t know why Mark is doing it, only that he enjoys seeing his pleased smile whenever Jamie suggests running at his attackers naked just to catch them off-guard or throwing a few smoke grenades and playing footstep sounds through a speaker while making a tactical retreat.

The next morning, he follows his usual routine: shaves, showers, dresses, checks his bag to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything, double checks when the ferry leaves and the trains go and opens his door.

The sight is unintentionally comical, the almost guilty expression on his face, his fist raised halfway for a now unnecessary knock, the way he stills completely. They stare at each other for a few heartbeats. Jamie opens his mouth first: “Shouldn’t you be at your parents’ already?”

Mark hesitates. “Yes”, he offers cautiously. It seems that’s all Jamie will get.

It comes to him naturally as it’s the only logical course of action, the only words which make sense, which fit in the gap Mark has created by coming here. “Well, shit. You wanna come with me?” A small nod and it’s decided. Simple as that. Maybe they’ll have to take a later ferry if the first one’s full but the trains usually aren’t so if they don’t arrive on time it’ll be only by an hour. Mark’s about the size of Jamie’s brother so he doesn’t need to bring any luggage. It’s laughable how uncomplicated it is. “Alright, then. C’mon.”

The journey is spent rather pleasantly, Jamie recounting stories from his childhood and warning Mark about his family. Landscapes roll by, rain picks up and stressed out people hurry around them. Normally, Jamie’s anticipation is mixed with dread by the time he approaches his stop but today he feels like he can breathe freely, hardly notices the heavy drops on his hood and doesn’t feel the chilly wind. Instead, they listen to music and either don’t chat at all or talk about politics. At some point, another passenger huffs and ostentatiously changes seats away from them after which they share a grin.

His mum, ever the gracious host, is delighted about the opportunity to cater to another guest while scolding Jamie for not letting her know beforehand as soon as Mark is out of earshot. It’s chaos as usual, too many people and not enough room and of course Mark has to be introduced to all of them: Jamie’s parents, his sister Chris, his brother Billy with wife Tara, their aunt Jen with son Rob. His mum quizzes Mark immediately on their names and grudgingly admits defeat when he lists them without any errors or even hesitation. Jamie would prefer to babysit him since he knows his relatives can be a little abrasive, especially to his friends, but he gets roped into helping with dinner right away.

It’s remarkably easy to get caught up in his family’s pace, reverting to old habits and being swept away by the sheer flood of questions and favours and chores. He bickers with Chris, refuses to lie about the hideous shoes she’s wearing this year and gives as good as he gets in terms of elbow poking and light-hearted shoving in the cramped kitchen. As usual, his mum does most of the work with Tara valorously doing her best (though mum is _never_ satisfied with her, regardless of whether the roast comes out perfect), Rob pretending to aid them while mostly just clogging the doorways and Jamie stealing sips of the diverse spirits with which dishes are spiced up.

Mark is subjected to a merciless interrogation by aunt Jen whose relentless questioning rivals that of a professional. From what Jamie can tell, he holds up impressively well meaning he only earns slight disdain and not the full program. It helps that he actually attended Cambridge (though he wisely omits that he was fourteen when he enrolled) before joining the Regiment due to constructing a series of devices that caught some important people’s attention. Unexpectedly, Mark converses readily with all of Jamie’s relatives, actively avoiding monosyllabic responses and Jamie realises he’s trying to be polite. Genuinely polite, not the fuck-off kind. It’s… yes, it is almost _adorable_.

Tara has made her famous eggnog as usual and Mark declines firmly up to the point where mum downs a glass, grimaces and declares it to be worse than even last year’s. Mark exchanges a meaningful glance with Jamie and tells Tara he’s changed his mind and he _will_ actually try it, thank you very much. It’s delicious, Jamie can tell by the way his eyebrows lift. He himself thinks it’s too sweet but he enjoys seeing Tara’s face light up every time Mark asks for more. He also enjoys seeing Mark’s cheeks turn pink over the course of the evening.

His heart weeps over all the excess food which he knows will inevitably end up in the bin. Dad is mostly quiet, discusses the newest game with Billy and only raises his voice once to interrupt aunt Jen when she gleefully asks about Jamie’s work. He talks over her pointedly, praises the way Chris has done her nails (all by herself, the big girl, it’s not like she’s mid-twenties or anything) and makes it obvious that he won’t tolerate _this_ sort of talk under his roof. Mark’s eyes search for his, a show of sympathy. Though Jamie can’t show it, he’s grateful for the wordless compassion.

Later, in between courses, he ends up alone with Chris in the kitchen. Never a good sign. “Is he single?”, she wants to know casually.

Jamie’s determined to not allow her to get under his skin, mostly ignore her like he ignored her earlier comments about nan. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“I did. I asked him whether he’s got a girlfriend and he said no and then I asked him whether he had a _boyfriend_ and he said no but with a weird expression. So I asked whether he’s looking for either.”

“Jesus Christ”, Jamie says under his breath.

“And I told him I saw you snogging that one bloke once.”

He stills. “The fuck d’you do that for?”

“Hey, you told Thomas Berkeley that I had lice three times in secondary school.” The fact that she gets defensive says a lot about her intentions in dropping this remark into Mark’s lap.

“Yeah, ‘cos you fucking lied in his face. And besides, you already got your revenge for that when you told mum about the tree thing.”

“But I ended up saving your shitty life, didn’t I? Didn’t you have like three broken ribs and refused to go to the doctor’s?”

“It was only two stupid fractures and you _definitely_ didn’t save my life.”

“He said if one had punctured your lung, you could’ve died, you tosser. How are you even still alive?”

“Pure spite.”

Chris laughs and it’s not a nice laugh at all. “You’re avoiding the topic. I know what you’re doing. Mark’s well fit, don’t you think?”

“Keep your fucking hands off my co-workers.”

“Oh believe me, I’d rather shove an entire bottle of Tara’s fucking swill up my twat than date someone like either of you. You’re shagging him.”

To Jamie, this comes out of nowhere. “I’m doing nothing of the sort, you silly cunt. Lay off the wine, it makes you delusional.”

“Why else would you bring a bloke over for Christmas if not for the thrill of shagging him in your old room? You’re bent and he’s fit.”

“Shut your fucking gob, can’t you take one breath without spewing out shite like -” And of course mum chooses this moment to enter, slaps him upside the head and yells at him that she didn’t raise him to be so vulgar and he knows how much she hates it when he curses and it’s even worse because he was cursing at _Chris_ and he should take her as an example and apologise this instant. The arrogant smirk on Chris’ mouth increases the urge to smack her but they’re in mum’s house and she sets the rules. Grinding his teeth, he apologises.

Her words, however, stick.

_Mark’s well fit, don’t you think?_ He never considered it before, took note of Mark’s features but refrained from analysing them and by now they’re too familiar. Like a photo up too close so all he can see are coloured dots and blurs and swirls yet the image as a whole eludes him. When they’re back at the dinner table, he attempts a step back, squints, unfocuses his eyes at the photo in front of him. Mark is currently explaining to a visibly pained Billy what oxidation and reduction mean since he understands neither the concept of an angry rant purely for the sake of eliciting approval nor the fact that people exist who actively don’t care about science. Jamie rarely gets the opportunity to watch Mark talk at length with (or in this case, _at_ ) someone who’s not him.

Even after just a few seconds he has to admit Chris is right. The realisation is worrisome. Mark’s lips effortlessly bend around technical jargon, his words clipped and precise, his voice full of barely suppressed excitement for the topic – there’s hardly anything more endearing than someone talking about a passion of theirs. It doesn’t stop there, though. Jamie notices a bunch of details previously undiscovered, the way Mark’s neck smoothly curves into his shoulders, the differently-coloured specks in his eyes, his lashes fanning out over his cheeks every time he closes his eyelids and every new thing is troubling.

Mark never struck him as desirable simply because the thought that he _could_ be never crossed Jamie’s mind. They were colleagues at first and friends afterwards – he doesn’t look at friends the way he looks at strangers in pubs. Besides, Mark is probably the least sexual person in his circle, he refuses to hear details about Jamie’s lays, leaves as soon as Jamie starts flirting with _anyone_ , expresses no interest in anyone they meet. And yet. He’s got a strong jaw, well-defined muscles without being overly buff, is tall, has a boyish appeal. His smile is stunning.

Jamie is dumbstruck. The longer he stares, the worse it gets. He needs to stop but Chris’ words are doing countless laps of honour in his mind and it’s exactly the wrong ones: _You’re shagging him. The thrill of shagging him in your old room._ Heat rises up in his cheeks and in his groin and he needs to _stop_ but now OJ’s involved and that means no turning back: put your seatbelt on, hold on to something solid, we’re going in.

 

It’s not OJ’s worst idea, not by a long shot. The leg stab is pretty high up on that list, some of the pick-up lines he’s used as well, but not this. OJ hasn’t actually proven that dangerous, he merely boosts Jamie’s questionable ideas, allows them to ripen and harvests them, uses them against him. Sometimes, OJ is nothing but a wanker, scars on Jamie’s body can attest to that, sometimes he sabotages and breaks things and sometimes he breaks people, but sometimes he’s the best friend Jamie’s ever had, feeding him jokes and self-esteem and spontaneity. In this case, it could go both ways.

“Have you ever kissed anyone?”, OJ wants to know.

Warm lights from the Christmas tree, the only light source left over on the whole storey, paint them softly, creating an atmosphere of isolation, of a slightly altered reality. It’s eerily quiet, no one out on the street and all guests and residents fast asleep. One by one, they filed out, excusing themselves to bed, yawning and stretching and wishing them a good night, moaning about having to get up early the next day. They’re left over, residue of an overall pleasant Christmas Eve, slightly dizzy with eggnog or stronger drinks and have forgotten time exists. There’s no clock in sight so they secretly decide to remain here until they can’t anymore. The walls are thin upstairs, they’d wake others by talking.

Mark doesn’t offer any opinions on Jamie’s family and he doesn’t probe. To him it’s obvious enough with whom Mark got along well, namely Tara, and with whom he didn’t, which is dad and Chris and Jen and mum probably too. Still, he seems content, loose, approachable. Out of uniform and draped over the couch with which Jamie grew up, he’s more than ever like flesh and blood and not theoretical concept. His body gives off heat, his smiles are easy and some of his words are slurred. How did Jamie manage to miss this, how did he not notice Mark’s corporeality before? He’s far from untouchable.

And so, during an extended pause, OJ poses his question, vomits it up into the fragile structure between them like the tasteless chat-up line that it is. It’s not his worst idea. But it undeniably makes the list.

Astonishingly, Mark furrows his brows and purses his lips instead of dodging or shooting him down coldly. “No, I -” His hands come alive, one rubbing over the fabric of his trousers, one pulling on his sleeve. “I’ve never -” He looks down as if his gaze alone could stop his fingers from moving. “No”, he finishes.

Jamie is mesmerised by his fidgeting. Mark doesn’t fidget. He also doesn’t talk about these kinds of things. “Do you want to -”

“James”, he says and maybe it’s a plea or a question, Jamie doesn’t know.

“I’m just saying. It’s an offer. We could -”

“What are you talking about?”

But it’s clear Mark knows _exactly_ what he’s talking about. His eyes are wide and for the very first time since they met, he looks his age, vulnerable, a little lost. Jamie has taken a few virginities in his lifetime, it’s usually an experience both awkward and elating but it never meant more than now, never before has he wanted to steal someone’s first _kiss_ this much. “I’ll go slow so you can get used to it. It’s practise. When you snog someone for real, you’ll know what to do.”

“This isn’t for real?”, Mark asks and there’s a hint of _amusement_ in his voice – Jesus Christ, Jamie is providing him with an excuse and he tramples all over it. “You reek of smoke.”

Right, he remembers the smell of cigarettes bothers Mark. He’s even trying to quit but he needed one after overhearing earlier that Mark’s birthday was on the fucking day nan died and instead of mentioning it to Jamie, he watched him maim himself and went home without his music and if _that_ isn’t the best reason to need a fag, Jamie doesn’t know what is. Rob joined him outside and they performed their usual semblance of a conversation in which a differently intoned ‘alright’ makes up half of their vocabulary while Jamie’s mind was preoccupied with processing this information.

OJ’s far from distracted, though. He realises something: if Mark was unwilling, he’d have declined his entirely altruistic offer. Instead, he’s buying time hoping that Jamie gets the hint and Mark isn’t forced to admit it outright. God knows why, but Mark _does_ want to kiss him. Instantly, he turns cocky. “I’m not gonna brush my fucking teeth and wake everybody up for you, babe.”

“There’s a conifer right there”, Mark replies, indicating the Christmas tree, and he must’ve heard from Chris how Jamie used to chew pine needles before returning home so mum wouldn’t smell the smoke.

“You’re a fucking riot”, Jamie informs him and he just grins and the tense atmosphere vanishes, dissipates in the wake of his light-hearted words. Jamie gets up and empties the nearest stray glass of eggnog, swirls the viscous liquid around in his mouth despite the sickly sweet taste and makes an exaggerated face for Mark’s benefit. After he’s sat down again, he angles his body towards the solid one next to him and places one of his arms on the back of the sofa, careful not to touch him yet. Mark’s amusement has faded, replaced by anticipation. He’s fidgeting again. OJ goes in for the kill. “Babe, close your eyes”, he whispers and Mark _does_.

The display of trust is breathtaking. Jamie leans in and relishes the calm before the storm, their breath mingling, their noses brushing, both of them in limbo, weightless. Waiting. Then he takes the plunge and presses his lips to Mark’s. But the expected fireworks fail to appear, there’s no holy choir chanting Händel’s hallelujah, there’s no revelation. Instead, it’s a warm slide and a soft touch, Mark gradually getting used to the movements, copying Jamie at first and then following his lead, adapting to cues and it’s…

It’s nice.

Why did he think it would be different? This is still Mark, he _knows_ him, nothing about him is over the top or passionate or emotional, instead it’s soothing and pleasant and Jamie only realises he’s in too deep when he can feel his heartbeat pounding in his _feet_. Mark keeps sneaking up on him, gradually phasing into Jamie’s life until it’s impossible to imagine it without him and suddenly he’s _drowning_ and gasping for air and they break apart. “Fuck”, he means to curse at himself but blurts it out because that’s just what his life is like now.

Mark seems unsure. “Was it -”

“No, shit, it’s fine, natural talent yadda yadda. I’m just drunk.”

“You’re always drunk.”

His laugh comes out a bit strained. He’s uncertain whether it’s a joke or not. “You wanna do tongue, too? I didn’t drink that eggnog for nothing.” Is this a new low in his life? Trying to coerce a tipsy co-worker to snog him on Christmas Eve, on his parents’ couch of all places? Desperation is a look he’s worn before though he never cared for it.

Still, he feels less pathetic when Mark nods and wonders whether it’s possible to get second wind from the tiny amount of alcohol he just consumed because his brain is _very_ muddled all of a sudden.

They sit there, only lips and tongue and teeth touching and Jamie is a teenager again when kisses alone were nearly enough to make him come in his pants. It’s unbelievably erotic yet so _pure_ at the same time, there’s no urge to act on his arousal, he’s content with allowing Mark to toy with his tongue. The more confident he gets, the more Jamie has to hold back. A moan escapes him and he feels Mark’s lips stretch into a smile, so he does it again, louder, and earns a whispered: “Stop.”

He behaves for a minute but when Mark nibbles at his lower lip, he mumbles: “That’s so fucking hot.”

The moment is lost, Mark’s embarrassment overtakes his desire to keep snogging and he leans back with a soft, self-conscious laugh. He looks delectable, all wet lips and rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes and exactly like someone who just had their first kiss should look like. The two of them beam at each other like a pair of morons without a care in the world and there’s nothing uncomfortable about any of it, surprisingly enough. Even when Jamie quite noticeably adjusts his trousers and informs Mark that he’s _definitely_ got enough practise now, Mark just chuckles quietly.

And even though the whole thing turns out not even half as awful as Jamie has feared, it’s still on the list. Because he can’t seem to stop _looking_ at Mark. His eyesight must’ve gotten better. He sees… _more_ now when he looks at his best friend. And maybe that’s a problem.

 

_~*~_

 

Jamie Porter is a lot of things. A joker, reckless, potentially self-destructive, decent at his job, on alright terms with his colleagues, waspish on nicotine withdrawal – the list is long. He prided himself until recently that ‘coward’ was missing from it but he has to retract that claim now. As it turns out, Jamie Porter is a gigantic coward. He’s ludicrous and laughable and _longing_ and if someone had told him a year ago that he’d be swooning over some dude who’s not only ten times smarter than him but also his best friend, he might’ve gone out of his way to shout abuse at anyone he considers vaguely pleasant just to avoid getting into this situation.

Nothing happens.

Of course life goes on, their patrol passes a training exercise with flying colours meaning they end up physically and mentally exhausted and merely resembling a functional human being but at least they didn’t snitch. There’s even a brief scuffle with their ‘captors’ after they’ve been caught due to the needle Jamie hid in his mouth and passed on to Mark who let Mitchell have it who managed to uncuff himself with it. The captain wasn’t best pleased about the bruises and the havoc they caused in their escape attempt but acknowledges their resourcefulness while all Jamie can think about is the way their lips _almost_ touched while passing the small tool.

What it comes down to is this: he’s afraid. He’s _terrified_ of losing Mark, possibly scaring him off, defiling the construct between them they’ve built together over the past months. Both their efforts went into it and it’s adorned with memories, decorated with all the small and huge things they’ve done for each other – how could he bear endangering all this? Mark isn’t fickle but he might be the type to hold grudges, or withdraw irretrievably when hurt. He doesn’t talk about relationships and God _forbid_ Jamie even puts that idea and Mark in the same context because his imagination runs wild with all the trauma Mark might’ve experienced, betrayal and humiliation and disillusion, or he might even be asexual. Or _straight_. It’s impossible to guess and because Jamie is a coward, he doesn’t ask.

Instead, he pines. His libido is out of control ever since he tasted Mark’s tongue even if Christmas passes without any other notable events, but when he arrives back home in his flat, he ends up with three fingers deep inside and sobbing into his pillow out of pleasure because of his vivid and hopeful imagination. Every time he does it, every time he gives in and picks someone up in a bar or literally just on the street, shame burns low in his stomach, yet he can’t cease thinking those dirty thoughts about the most innocent person he knows. He’s relied on casual sex for years now, it’s quicker, less complicated and usually satisfying enough though the more time he spent with Mark before Christmas, the less of a hole he needed to fill with the help of ultimately faceless strangers. Now, the hole is gaping and hungry and demands for nothing but Mark, only briefly appeased by wanking twice daily.

And Jamie, frightened and cautious, pretends everything’s fine.

 

Sometimes, when Mark neither fancies the hour long walk home nor is motivated enough to look up the taxi company whose number both of them keep forgetting, he stays over at Jamie’s flat. It goes both ways, though Jamie’s sofa doesn’t smell of mothballs and the bakery around the corner sells delicious croissants which Mark inhales at an insane pace, so they probably secretly prefer sleeping at Jamie’s place. Mark barely fits on the sofa and claims it’s actually not too uncomfortable which Jamie knows to be a blatant lie because he’s spent nights on it when he was too lazy or drunk to drag himself to bed and woke up with a crick in his neck and heavy limbs. Mark doesn’t complain. Jamie almost wishes he would so he could jokingly (but not really) invite him into his bed.

It’s not like he’d actually do it. That is an OJ thought. Lately, OJ’s suggestions centre around Mark in the worst possible ways, with atrocious pick-up lines, corny jokes or innuendos which barely deserve that title due to their crassness. OJ _really_ wants to get off with him and it gets harder and harder to ignore his advice, push his attention-seeking, insistent proposals aside. Another concern: OJ’s obsession is starting to mar their time together, sometimes leaves Jamie frazzled and frustrated. If it’s allowed to persist, Jamie might be tempted to avoid Mark in order to escape the negative repercussions – a worrying prospect.

The past evening has been enjoyable as usual, a mixture of arguing what kind of food to get, music, a half-hearted attempt to watch TV before muting it and discussing one of the topics mentioned at length, threatening a middle-aged woman badgering one of their favourite cashiers (and doesn’t that mean he’s been in this shithole for entirely too long) and sharing drinks. The last one usually means Jamie mixes one of his favourites, persuades Mark to have a sip and then giggles over his reaction. He still doesn’t drink most of the time but it’s a step up from _I don’t drink full stop_.

Normally, Jamie’s sleep while intoxicated is deep, dreamless and dulcet; waking up is another matter but the sleep itself is wonderful, a welcome reprieve from all the stress, anxiousness and boredom he battles throughout his days. Not much disturbs him and his head feels suspended underwater even when he does wake. However, his brain registers the dip in his mattress even if it’s still sluggish, the rustle of clothing, the uninvited presence of another body in his personal space. A soft touch on his lips.

He’s no stranger to inebriated groping and brief fondling, be it an adventurous or merely horny guy or gal, it hardly riles him up even if it’s deliberate and possibly demeaning. If it was literally any other person, he’d grumble wearily and maybe turn away but give in if they persisted because hey, sex is still sex and he’s never too drunk to forget condoms exist. It isn’t though. It’s not just anyone. It’s not a stranger.

Despite his sense of balance assuring him he’s currently occupying a violent carnival ride, his fists manage to latch onto the lapels of what feels like a jacket and _tug_ when its owner tries to move away. His mouth is dry and his mind woozy so it takes him a few attempts to finally voice the one thought making him spring into action in spite of his sorry state: “Mark.” It is but a whisper and yet reveals so much. It’s everything he can think right now. “Mark, babe. C’mere. Please, Mark.”

Mark is Jamie’s opposite in many regards – one of them is his aversion to grand gestures. With him, small, seemingly insignificant details matter the most… and he just kissed Jamie while he thought him asleep. It might as well have been a booming declaration scaring the entire neighbourhood. Jamie understands even in his aimless confusion that this is what he’s been waiting for; he didn’t even know he _was_ waiting for anything until now.

“I was just about to leave”, Mark says but he’s betrayed, his tone so full of emotion gives him away, his composure has been eroded. He allows Jamie to basically envelop him, pull him to his hands and knees onto the bed, looming over Jamie, allows him to wrap his arms and legs around his solid body. His clothes are cool, he must’ve gotten up a while ago. Surprisingly, he doesn’t protest against Jamie’s hands running all over him unashamedly, making up for the past weeks of dreaming what he would feel like. After being used to nothing, now he’s suddenly granted everything and he can’t appreciate it appropriately because his head is still swimming.

OJ is _over the moon_. He’s delighted about the opportunity to tell Mark exactly how he feels about him and is determined to be as blunt about it as possible. He starts out with: “You have no fucking idea how much I want you.” And if Mark hasn’t struggled to escape his embrace before, now he definitely is. It’s gentle, clumsy and helpless, no real force behind it but rather restless hands pushing weakly and movements which are easily undone by another sharp pull or a small adjustment. They end up in an awkward position, Mark standing on his knees and Jamie wrapped around him still, face buried in his shirt and inhaling greedily while his hands roam over Mark’s broad back. Fingers are carding through his short hair and digging into his shoulder. “You even smell good”, he mumbles into the fabric in front of his mouth.

He gets a quiet response: “James.” It sounds broken. He slips his hands under the t-shirt, caresses cold flesh with warm fingers and feels a bulge forming against his midsection, where his belly is pressed against Mark’s groin. It’s unbearable.

“I want to see you.” There’s still a risk of Mark fleeing so he keeps his legs firmly in place, crossed around Mark’s, while he flops back onto the bed to fumble for the switch of his bedside lamp. The sudden brightness blinds him and he has to fight back an imminent headache before he can take a proper look at Mark. He’s returning his gaze with a self-conscious expression, unsure of what to expect, and really is fully clothed and ready to depart, though both the reason and his destination are unknown to Jamie. Judging by his levels of drunkenness, it’s the middle of the night still. “Sit your arse down, you’re not going anywhere right now.”

He moves to cover Mark again, hold him down for fear of rejection, climbs into his lap, straddling him, and pushes his jacket off his shoulders so he can suck on the side of his neck. Strong arms encircle him and keep him in place, reminding him that Mark’s presence is undeniably not Jamie’s doing but a voluntary choice. If Mark had wanted to leave, he’d be gone already. Yet he remains. He’s a mystery to explore, a treasure to uncover beneath layers of textiles, at Jamie’s mercy so far.

And OJ’s still running his mouth. “You’re so damn hot”, he murmurs against heated skin, “I want to lick you everywhere, take you _apart_. Let me -” His tongue is tasting residues of sweat and soap from the gym earlier, his lips are possessively creating visible marks on the pale skin, claiming Mark as _his_ , and his hands are undoing his trousers. Jamie feels like a wildfire ruining the man he’s straddling, overwhelming even himself and leaving nothing but ashes in his wake. Mark doesn’t seem to know what to do with him except for abiding, allowing him to take what he wants. OJ doesn’t think twice. He takes.

Jamie’s tongue is swiping over Mark’s outer ear when he finally feels silky skin in his palm, pulls the stiff member out of its confinement and can’t help glancing at it. He stills. Instead of basically dry humping Mark’s hip and vibrating against him with suppressed desire, he stops moving altogether and just stares. A quiet “holy shit” forces its way out of his throat.

Mark sounds confused and concerned. “James, what -”

He tears his eyes away with effort and maintains eye contact while replying: “Babe, you’re fucking _hung_.” A new objective has been acquired, a new bullet point appears on his bucket list: sit on this gorgeous piece of meat even if he can’t stand for a week afterwards. His fantasies don’t stand a chance against the real thing and where he has been entirely happy just touching and undressing Mark, now he’s got a purpose. Mark does that small laugh he resorts to when he’s embarrassed and flattered at the same time and it won’t be long before the first one wins over the second but OJ is relentless: “I want to ride your dick into the sunset, you’re _fantastic_.”

It’s a good indicator of him having gone overboard that Mark doesn’t helpfully point out sunset has long passed and instead slightly shakes his head with a disarmed smile. “Don’t say that. I’m not -” He struggles for words. “Just stop talking.”

Not happening. “Here, hold this”, Jamie says and pulls up the hem of Mark’s t-shirt, pushes it into his mouth and feels his own cock throb when Mark stops complaining and bites down on it obediently. He’s blushing and it drives Jamie _wild_. Mark kissing him while he slept was such a typical thing to do, sweet and secretive and safe, now his toned chest is exposed and his behemoth of a cock is out and he’s _miles_ out of his comfort zone yet soldiers on bravely. Jamie’s going to take him even further. OJ loves talking dirty.

He takes hold of the erection poking out of patterned boxers, buries his face in the crook of Mark’s neck and starts stroking slowly, dragging the smooth foreskin over the sensitive head and listens for the rapid heartbeat, the deep, shuddering breaths. “Do you want to fuck me?”, OJ asks quietly and the cock in his hand twitches fiercely, almost hard enough to escape his grasp. Mark’s fingertips are starting to dig into his back. “I’d love to ride you, fuck myself on your dick until you can’t think straight, work it deeper and deeper into myself. Would you like that?” Another twitch, just as forceful as the previous one. He’s hitting a nerve. He pictures it and is rewarded with dizziness, lust pulsing through his lower body, he imagines the ecstasy of having this thing paint his insides. Have _Mark_ be the one to do it.

His other hand joins its twin, wrestles Mark’s balls out of his underwear as well and plunges into his boxers unapologetically. If he’s only going to provide a hand job (and everything else is probably going too far), he’s going to make it memorable. When his fingers press against Mark’s perineum, his hips lift off the bed a few inches and Jamie’s glad for Mark’s tight embrace so he doesn’t lose balance – even if it denies him access to all the wonderful expressions on Mark’s face. His strokes stay light and teasing. “You’re perfect, babe, you’d look so pretty giving it to me. You can probably fuck me against a wall without breaking a sweat, imagine that. Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking _huge_.”

Mark whimpers. He’s probably beet red and uncomfortable but at the same time, his thick shaft is bouncing in Jamie’s hand. It might take weeks but the day Jamie convinces him to shove his cock into him will be one of the happiest days of his life. If he doesn’t stop thinking about it any time soon, he’ll end up drooling all over Mark’s shoulder. “God, I want you so bad. I’d finger myself open until I’m gaping and dripping wet and can take you in one go, I’d take you so beautifully.” The body beneath him is shaking now, muscles tensing and breath dying. It’s thrilling to watch, a dance to Jamie’s music for once. He pushes for more.

His fingers encircle the head, massage it in time with his other fingers further down and wrench another broken sound out of Mark’s throat. “I’ll suck you dry, I’m so crazy for you, I’ll wake you up at night so I can blow you until you scream, after work, we can fuck in your car or my flat, or at the gym you love so much in the middle of the night, you can have me anywhere and anytime you want, just -”

Mark comes with a loud moan, his t-shirt snapping back down from between his teeth. It’s sudden and explosive and Jamie didn’t expected it _at all_ so all he can do is ride out the aborted thrusts, his fingers eagerly milking the thick ropes of come shooting out and soiling pretty much everything Mark’s wearing. His body is shuddering violently and it’s an absolutely stunning sight, all Jamie can do is hold on, watch and meticulously memorise every little detail about Mark’s first non-self-induced orgasm. He wonders whether it’s the entire situation or his words in particular which managed to push him over the edge so quickly.

While he’s coming down, Jamie strokes his back reassuringly, showers him with tender caresses and tries to catch most of the mess he’s made with his hand, wiping some of it messily on his sheets. Wherever Mark’s going after this, he doesn’t need sticky underwear. He must be able to sense Jamie’s jubilant expression (they’re still pressed against each other, denying him access to his actual expressions – nothing Jamie can do about it, sadly) because he pleads quietly: “Don’t say anything.”

But Jamie can’t help himself. Planting butterfly kisses all over Mark’s jaw, he replies: “Why not? You’re so lush. Look, babe. Look what you’re doing to me.” He reveals his own erect dick, pushes his waistband down below his testicles so it’s all on display, stiff and wet and dark in colour. “Do you want to touch me?”

For obvious reasons, yes-or-no questions are necessary and ones that don’t even require a verbal answer are best. Mark does indeed want to touch him, wraps hesitant fingers around him and still seems unsure about the proceedings. Taking pity on him, Jamie rearranges them so he’s on his back again, mostly naked now, legs draped around Mark sitting between them. He’s avoiding Jamie’s gaze so pointedly it’s endearing, his ears the same colour as his cheeks, his body language the exact opposite of Jamie’s lazy, languid sprawl. He could do nothing but watch him like this for days. Gone is the confident genius, replaced by a mostly mute young man overwhelmed by the affection thrown at him. He brings out OJ’s sadistic side, makes him want to see him squirm.

Jamie rolls his hips into the light grip until Mark gets the hint and cranks the intensity up a notch, speeds up his strokes, tightens his fist. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you”, OJ tells him unashamedly and adds: “Still can’t.” He waits until he’s got Mark’s full attention to lift his own hand and start to lick it clean, lap at it like a cat and savour the bitter taste.

“You’re unbelievable”, Mark says under his breath but picks up the pace nonetheless.

“If you want me to shut the fuck up, you could kiss me.” The hand stops. A dip in the mattress, clothes rustling, an _extremely_ invited person invading his personal space, a soft touch on his lips. Jamie is in heaven. The rest is a blur, a melange of shy kisses at odds with the exquisite jolts of pleasure Mark’s hand induces, strong muscles underneath his palms, a soft gasp into his mouth as he reaches down and slips a finger into himself with a lascivious moan. It builds and builds and he could spend all eternity with Mark slowly pumping his dick but he doesn’t want to exacerbate Mark’s embarrassment about his swift climax, so he focuses on all the small things about him turning him on desperately (which, in this case, is pretty much all of him) and orgasms in minutes, hums contentedly while he unloads on himself and holds Mark as close as possible.

Unlike usually, Jamie doesn’t sober up promptly, instead he basks in the afterglow for an inordinate amount of time, revels in the euphoria of the moment – Mark wants him, _actually_ wants him and he knows he shouldn’t jinx it, shouldn’t think about the future yet but he can’t help himself. He pictures them exchanging sloppy kisses on his couch after a half-hearted argument about anything, imagines Mark’s expression whenever Jamie fondles his butt, feels his stomach tingle when thinking about Mark being the first thing he sees in the mornings.

“James, would you do one thing?” Mark sits up with a suddenly serious expression, shaking off Jamie’s roaming hands. And there it is, must be, this _has_ to be the inevitable rejection, can’t be anything else. Jamie doesn’t want to hear it, is tempted to throw Mark off the bed before he can say the words because _why now_ and _why at all_. Mark wavers, drops his gaze and if this isn’t it, what else could it – “Try to stay sober.”

Ah. Alright. Jamie is relieved, OJ is irritated. It’s a strange mixture. “Babe, I already gave up smoking for you”, OJ informs him matter-of-factly, disregarding the fact that Mark has never asked him to, never asked him for anything actually. This is the first.

“ _Please_.”

Another first. Jamie can’t remember a single instance of Mark using this word. If not for his post-orgasmic exhaustion, he’d start to worry. “Sure”, he says loftily. “Alright. If it makes you happy.”

Mark nods simply, his face sullen.

After that, it’s like flicking a switch. Jamie remembers nothing, can’t recall whether Mark added anything else or said goodbye, doesn’t know how they ended the night. He does remember everything before with vivid clarity, lively enough to likely never forget it which turns out more of a curse than a blessing. When he wakes up the next morning, he’s only wearing a t-shirt and there’s dried sperm on his belly. His head feels like someone dropped an anvil on it. And Mark is gone.

 

_~*~_

 

There’s a notable progression.

The first day, everything’s fine.

It takes two days for him to ask the captain and receive an answer which shatters something deep inside of him.

After two weeks, only a sliver of hope remains, he twitches uncontrollably every time he hears the name – and his patrol happens to mention it a lot.

A month later, he’s broken.

It culminates. The dude who’s got his cock up Jamie’s arse seems worried when he asks why he’s crying. Jamie wipes his tears away, doesn’t even have enough energy to get angry at himself or the guy for noticing it or _him_. His anger has long subsided. He staggers home and throws up twice along the way. When he’s finally in bed, he’s shivering virulently but no amount of blankets or clothes or alcohol can warm him up since it’s a frost paralysing him from the inside. He rips a large tear in his pillow from clenching his fists too hard. He’s empty.

The next day, he seeks out Ryan. He’s the major responsible for the squadron posted in Belfast, an older man with a gruff attitude and a no-nonsense policy. Generally, it’s said the less you come into contact with him, the better you’re doing – as the highest ranked blade in Belfast, he’s primarily concerned with ensuring smooth procedures and solving problems. Jamie feels like one, so he approaches him. It’s not their first meeting, not even the third or fifth; they’re familiar enough at this point. He was last sent to the major after his nan died.

Ryan notices him before they’re in hearing range, heaves a sigh and nods in the direction of his office. Jamie’s knows this gesture. He enters the cramped, comfortably chaotic room and takes a seat in the visitor’s chair, waits until he hears footsteps, the door opening and closing, until Ryan comes into view and leans against his solid desk in front of Jamie instead of sitting down. He knows this isn’t going to be an official meeting, none of it will go on record. Most of what they talk about never does.

His throat constricts, frantically tries to hold on to the words attempting an escape, words Jamie has rehearsed in secret long before he would ever admit they’re true. Ryan allows him the time to compose himself. It’s one of the many reasons why Jamie is here, talking to him specifically. “I have a problem”, he hears himself say and it’s undeniably himself who utters these words and no one else. He’s poured out everything this morning, knowing full well he can easily acquire more and probably will, too. It still felt good. The cuts on his fingers pulse, reminding him of the bottles he’s accidentally smashed in the process, reaching into his sink to get the fragmented glass out, uncaring about his blood dripping everywhere. Uncaring about a lot of things.

The major’s face softens. His arms uncross. He knows what it means. “You do”, he replies quietly.

It’s the hardest thing Jamie has ever said because he’s a coward. He’s too afraid of defeat. He says it regardless. “I need your help.” People will know, his patrol will know, maybe even his family will find out. It doesn’t matter. He can’t go on like this. Not without – not like this. Not after they’ve, not after Christmas, not after the past month. His hands are starting to shake.

“You already took one of the hardest steps.” Ryan reaches out, squeezes his shoulder. The small display of camaraderie feels like a banquet to a starved Jamie, to someone who isolated himself for weeks out of necessity. “I’ll do what I can and I’m sure you’ll get through this. I know you. When you’re determined, you’ll get it done.”

He feels sheepish, looking back. He’s raised his voice at Ryan before, claimed he was functioning better drunk than everyone around him sober, claimed he didn’t need it, claimed he could stop anytime, claimed he didn’t require Ryan’s advice. He was wrong on so many accounts. He realises now Ryan is the only person who believed in him the entire time. “I’m scared.” His voice sounds foreign but he speaks the truth. It’s the oil which allows his cogs to turn effortlessly, it allows him to be a better person, makes him witty, charming and a lot more charismatic than he actually is. He’s not sure what will remain if he gives it up. What kind of person he’ll end up being.

“I know. It’s alright.” Ryan examines him a while, refrains from commenting on his bandaged hands and the bags under his eyes. Jamie’s grateful. “Do you have someone to support you along the way?”

The implication cuts deeper than the glass this morning. Luckily, there’s hardly any blood left to lose. He’s dry already, has started bleeding out a month ago. A bit at a time. He shakes his head mutely.

“I’m going to assign you to a different patrol.” That’s a surprise. The major must notice his expression because he explains himself: “All three assured me on various occasions that you were doing fine, were kept under control. I used to think they were covering for you, refusing to rat you out, showing loyalty. Now I’m not so sure.”

No anger left. Still, there’s disillusionment. Mitchell, Amcott and Grader. They _were_ covering for something: their own arses. Can’t be their problem if there’s no problem. Can’t all be punished by the captain or the major if there’s nothing to be punished for. They knew, everyone who spent a few days in Jamie’s presence must’ve known. He’s given up on hiding it a while ago.

“Even Chandar said the same.” Jamie twitches. “Though he seemed more intent on keeping you out of trouble.” A pause. “You two were close.”

It’s a statement. This, too, must’ve been obvious to anyone seeing them together. He nods. “We were.”

Ryan sighs again. “I wish I had answers for you. His reassignment was sudden, even for me. Has he contacted you?”

“Not a word.”

“He wasn’t going to stay here long anyway. You shouldn’t have, either. If you weren’t bloody good at what you do, you’d have gotten the boot right after pulling some of the shite you’ve pulled. Maybe I can manage to get you a different posting when you’re better.”

“I would appreciate that. Thank you.” Even after everything, hope blooms somewhere inside. Belfast took everything he ever loved. Maybe it’s possible to start over somewhere else. “And I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused.”

Ryan snorts. “No, you’re not. Go back to your post for now, I’ll come back to you later. If you feel the urge though, I’d rather have you interrupt a meeting than reach for the nearest bottle. Understood?”

“Yes.” He knows Ryan means it, so he adds an earnest: “Thank you again.” When he gets up, the pressure on his ribcage is lighter. He took the first step, now he needs to stick with it – and having told Ryan, it’s not like he can lie to himself about his resolutions, pretend it’s just one pint, one shot. Telling someone has made it official.

Right as he’s walking out the door, he hears his name once more and turns around. Ryan regards him seriously. “Kid broke your fucking heart, didn’t he?”, he asks.

Jamie bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes iron. He nods. When Ryan doesn’t seem to have anything to add, he leaves.


	3. Chapter 3

The man stepping out of the helicopter with its blades still chopping away overhead, grass bending away in awe, pilot no more than a silhouette offering a curt nod and waiting to be able to disembark again, is called Smoke.

A callsign, obviously, he’s been told he could choose one, received immensely gratifying eye rolls over his first few suggestions and was told to tone it down a notch – so now he’s Smoke, less of a heroic title as he’d hoped, unlikely to be used reverently by rescued civilians and more likely to serve as a cheesy nickname which will grow old entirely too soon and be overused by people he might not care about in hushed whispers and unfair gossip. Still. It’s new. He wears it like an extra layer of protective clothing, like actors wear roles, like job hunters wear suits, like he wore his new haircut the day he joined secondary school. It’s his battle armour.

It’s new. Unspoilt, untainted, innocent, pure. As of now still unearned – but that’s why he’s here.

In his head, his mental mouth bends around variations of greetings, has done so the past few days he spent pacing his small flat so devoid of personal items and yet so chock full of bad memories that his skin started itching somewhere along the way whenever he was in it. _Hi, I’m Smoke. Hey, my callsign is Smoke._ And his favourite, mentioned casually, rolling off his tongue easily: _They call me Smoke_.

Of course literally nobody calls him Smoke so far, therefore claiming it is a bold-faced lie but sobriety has noticeably helped his poker face.

He enjoys the way his new identity sounds, starting with a dangerous snake-like hissing, associations with smoke grenades and stealth and trickery inevitable. He wholeheartedly hopes he can slide into this persona uninhibited and effortlessly, put it on like a warm coat and really feel at home in it. He’s struggled with pinpointing his own personality recently and if this offers a good enough alternative, he might just adapt it.

Arriving at the oddly familiar base despite never having been here before with no more than a lightly packed duffel bag, the clothes on his body and a chest bursting with anticipation, he still can’t believe his luck. He must’ve caught the right person’s eye somewhere along the way, still doesn’t know how, managed to perform satisfactorily in the tests with a bit of Major Ryan’s help and wasted no time hesitating when he’d been offered this opportunity. No second guessing required, he’s been living away from his family and past friends anyway, couldn’t call anyone in fucking Belfast his friend without grimacing and was itching for a change in scenery as well. This way, he wouldn’t owe Ryan for a reassignment: he _earned_ this, worked hard to meet this elusive organisation’s standards and proved successful.

And so he’s ended up here, loitering uncertainly while his chauffeur takes off again and waiting for his new life to begin. Warm rays paint his shadow onto short grass and he has no recollection of how he survived the last winter.

A guy approaches him, built like a fridge, tall, bald and imposing, thick muscles and with a neck like a bull yet his friendly smile turns his otherwise threatening appearance into something a tad less intimidating. His handshake is firm and welcoming. “Good to see you”, he greets Smoke in a gruff Scottish accent which is music to his ears, “and welcome to Rainbow. My callsign is Sledge, but call me Seamus.”

Fitting – he _does_ look like someone who can easily tear through any obstacle in his way. Briefly, Smoke worries about his own decidedly smaller stature but decides that since he’s been accepted already, they must’ve deemed him good enough. No take-backsies. “Smoke, but call me Jamie. Nice to meet you. Is everyone here as chatty as the recruiters? I’m worried about my ears falling off due to wilful neglect, I don’t think the pilot would’ve told me off if I’d been half hanging out the damn copter.”

“We do have French operators, yes”, the Scot replies drily, making Smoke grin. He decides to like this man. “Their English isn’t even half bad, too.”

“If it isn’t a Christmas miracle, they probably forgot all their relatives’ names in the process. Can we get inside? My poor English skin is getting all confused by this sunshine.”

And Sledge’s chuckle feels like a personal victory almost as important as getting accepted into Rainbow.

For Smoke, there’s hardly anything more satisfying than tricking someone into thinking he’s hilarious and so he keeps the banter up on their way to the living quarters, his confidence solidifying a bit more every time he manages to amuse Sledge, make the wrinkles around his eyes deepen or earn a sarcastic retort. In a way, it’s like cycling, despite not having tried to impress anyone in a while, an odd mental muscle memory is kicking in now, his lips forming jokes in a familiar fashion, his tongue quick and sharp and his mind _frolicking_.

This is a new beginning and he’s treating it as such, eager to leave behind the emptiness, the grey fog which has been a constant companion the past weeks, months, in a way even years. He’s practised for days, combing through his thoughts to come up with puns for everything and anything he sees, even wasted a few witty remarks on the pilot earlier whose indifference had been frankly demotivating, but he hasn’t allowed it to bring him down. He’s making an effort. This, he doesn’t want to fuck up as he’s fucked up so many other things before. Like New Year’s resolutions, he made a list: reduce the cussing, refrain from going over the top with impulsive ideas, be witty, and for _fuck’s_ sake don’t develop any kind of crush on his colleagues. His goal is to go back to who he once was, only this time without the liquid crutches.

Sledge insists on parading him around the base first but he doesn’t mind as the Scotsman is generously humouring him and his inane questions in between introducing him to everyone who’s arrived already, revealing the organisation’s name to be quite suitable. Smoke meets a stunning American redhead of Israeli descent and sour disposition whose name escapes him immediately in favour of a corny joke he once heard. The way Sledge drags him away while the woman glares daggers lets him know that he better watch his mouth around her or possibly wake up to a blade on his throat eventually. There are two of the aforementioned Frenchies, the woman welcoming, friendly and seeming extremely competent, the man stoic, brief and professional. He gets introduced as their medic which might explain his unimpressed stare, as if he’s able to _smell_ whenever someone is prone to get themselves injured and thus create more work. Smoke is certain he hasn’t seen the last of him and vows to try and make his job as easy as possible. Never upset the doctor, he’s learnt this the hard way before.

Finally, they come across four Russians huddled together in a cool corner of the building, apparently as disgruntled over the warm weather as Smoke is and also reminding him of gossiping old ladies with their sideways glances and conspiratorial mumbling. They seem the most receptive to his laid-back attitude and one of them even makes a point of getting up, shaking his hand and jovially introducing himself as Tachanka.

He considers his first impression a resounding success – the more he works on his reputation as a joker, the more he’ll be forced to stick to this image after all, preventing him from falling back into certain habits. Or that bottomless hole. Pushing the thought away, he reiterates to himself: ultimately, he just wants to enjoy himself and make others laugh while performing well at this job. He shouldn’t be so selfish.

The base itself isn’t any worse than what he’s used to, a bit rickety and lacking some of the comfort of more recently-built living accommodations but it’s a roof over his head and filled with interesting people he can’t wait to win over, so he’s not complaining. If anything, it’s too large for their current measly operator count of no more than 11 – they apparently missed a second American on the way and are trudging towards another SAS member – but according to Sledge, more people are scheduled to join them soon, first and foremost another blade and then a few Germans from the GSG9.

He takes note of the various available services which they’ll partly share with the resident troop, like the shooting range, a well-equipped gym, their own workshop, and even a lab he’ll be allowed to use, quickly added to the list after Smoke expressed interest in adding chemical warfare to their arsenal. It’s almost too good to be true, but he has no doubts the novelty will wear off eventually and reveal whichever hooks inevitably accompany this new job.

Done with the tour, Sledge has steered them down a corridor towards their shared room while elaborating on other operators’ quirks and eccentricities which have manifested during the week they’ve been stationed together already, yet he refrains from outright gossip and ignores Smoke’s attempts to guide the conversation towards the topic, much to his surprise. Not even people in their field are immune to envy, prejudice and arrogance, leading to harmful rumours and exaggerated stories – he prefers knowing both a person’s real personality as well as their reputation and therefore enjoys idle gossip, though he does try not to treat anyone differently because of it. He likes making up his own mind.

“You’re going to go bloody mental once you find out who’s joining us tomorrow as our fourth blade, but for now I’ll only give you his callsign: Thatcher.” The goal seems to be to recruit four members from various special forces each, for some reason unknown to Smoke. “The third lad who’s already here is young and seems nice enough but doesn’t talk much so leave him alone if he wants you to, he even chose to be called Mute, ironically.”

Something in Smoke’s face twitches and drowns out the urge to inform Sledge that there’s nothing ironic about his name, except if the bloke turned out to be exceptionally chatty. He’s heard something similar before.

“Here’s our room, get settled in.”

They’ve stopped in front of a door looking exactly the same as several others down the hallway and for some reason Smoke’s pulse is experiencing a rare spike. It takes a not unsubstantial amount of self-control to force out a light-hearted reply, his words slightly strained still. “No worries, I have my ways to get people to talk. I’m sure we’ll get along -”

His remark, meant to reassure Sledge as much as himself, die a pitiful death on his tongue as every thought grinds to a screeching halt the moment Sledge swings that fateful door open like Pandora allowing all evil to escape into the world. He should’ve learnt his lesson long ago, should’ve realised that if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was.

This was meant to be new, unsullied, a victory, something _entirely his own_ , a risky, exciting, fulfilling and worthy career choice he made to leave all baggage behind and yet there he was. A fucking boatload of baggage, lazing around on the top bunk, one leg outstretched, the other propped up, slender fingers gently holding the omnipresent music player, earbuds inevitably in use, one foot tapping out a fast, quickly changing rhythm, the movement so minuscule that most other people miss it, but no, Smoke notices, has always noticed, was painfully aware of the head bobbing, almost intangible swaying from side to side when it’s one of the rare melodic passages. Oh he fucking noticed, noticed every lift of elegantly curved eyebrows, the lines on his forehead deepening in concentration, the frustrated line around his mouth when something wasn’t working out. He noticed it all.

He looks at peace, calm expression at eye level with Smoke’s derailed one, seems unguarded and open like he did perceived centuries ago. He’s content. Smoke knows this look. Dark eyes seek his and lock with them and for a second the audacity to meet his gaze this casually causes Smoke to tremble.

It’s a flash flood. Everything inside him is screaming to hold it back, prevent it from demolishing the dam on which he spent so much effort, the dam which held back no more than a decently sized body of water previously, had struggled to contain a roaring ocean months ago and now is faced with an angry tide yet again. The murky depths press against it ruthlessly, growing stronger the longer Smoke looks at the figure on the bed, the hair tousled from his pillow, long limbs and boyish face. He’s tried so hard for this to be a fresh start. The dam is crumbling.

Before he can stop himself, words tumble out of his mouth like the first trickle, foul-smelling and carrying rotten carcasses: “You fucking cunt.”

Sledge gapes at him in disbelief whereas Mute, sure, _Mute_ , how fucking fitting for this deceitful, opportunistic, traitorous bloody _bastard_ , talking really has never been his strong suit, Mute just moves his thumb to pause the current song despite the music indubitably being low enough that he heard him _very_ clearly, never turns it loud enough where he’s not aware of his surroundings anymore.

“Hi”, he says, tone careful but mirth dancing in his eyes. Is he – _laughing_ at him? After everything, after they – after last Christmas and even after the past _months_ , he has nothing to offer but ridicule?

The dam breaks. And oh, there go his resolutions.

For a moment, impotent rage freezes him to the spot, paralyses him to the point of immobility and it’s the calm before the storm as he hears himself screaming a mere second later: “Fuck you in your fucking _mouth_ you wanker, bloody turd, are you fucking taking the piss, you prick, the fuck are you doing here?!” Fury flashes white hot inside him, makes him forget about where he is and why, his body needing an outlet for this sickening anger and tugging at his limbs, wanting him to punch something, drag fucking _Mute_ down, make _him_ bleed for a change. Never before had he felt all-encompassing, delirious rage like in this moment, desperate, a full body experience, muscles tensing, blood pulsing, skin sizzling.

Any remnants of joy in Mark’s eyes have vanished, instead he just blinks at Smoke like he has _no fucking idea_ why he’s this pissed. “I’m part of Rainbow”, he explains matter-of-factly, “just like you.”

The world fades out for a moment and the next thing he notices is a pale white wall approaching his face at an alarming speed before he’s smashed against it, an iron grip forcing his arm on his back and pushing it upwards painfully, a second merciless hand on his shoulder, making sure he gets a full meal of wallpaper and old paint. The sudden hurt helps snap him out of it and causes him to struggle against the hold, resulting only in a sharp tug which makes him groan involuntarily.

“Calm down, lad”, Sledge’s voice rumbles against his back, an unmistakable warning. He sounds like it’s no effort pinning Smoke down and it probably isn’t, not for him. “What’s wrong with you?”

Yeah. Right. Like there’s anything wrong with _him_.

He must’ve lunged at Mark or something similar for the mild-mannered Scotsman to refuse to let him go, and once he does, leaving Smoke to stagger momentarily, it’s probably due to non-verbal communication Smoke couldn’t help but miss. The worst is over yet it simmers still, flares up once more when he notices Mark’s disbelieving expression. It’s unbearable.

“So you two know each other”, Sledge surmises correctly. Oh, do they ever.

Holding Mark’s gaze, Smoke hisses: “I refuse to work with this tosser.”

“Not your decision to make. You’re both part of the same team.”

“I’d rather fucking _leave_ than be forced to look at this cocksucker for another second.”

“Do you really mean that?” Mark sounds largely unperturbed as if Smoke hasn’t just insulted him enough to start a medium sized pub brawl.

And no. Of _course_ Smoke doesn’t really mean it because inevitably, deep down, there’s relief. Not strong enough to drown his ire over Mark’s betrayal but strong enough to suppress the _yes_ he was considering spitting in Mark’s face. It’s not strong enough to overwhelm him, not after they’ve – not after Christmas, not after the past months. Yet it’s there.

Mark is alright.

He didn’t die by the road in a strange country on the way to a city Smoke can’t pronounce and has never heard of. He wasn’t tortured until his abused throat wouldn’t let out any more screams despite all hope being lost. He’s fine. And he’s _here_. Smoke could touch him, if he wanted, mess up the neat short hair and steal one of his earbuds, climb on top of him, curl up and never move again. He doesn’t want to hurt him, not _really_ , just like he sometimes says things he doesn’t _really_ mean but speaks nonetheless and watches how they cut deep. This, he wants to do right now.

“Mind your own fucking business”, he says weakly instead of _seeing you makes me sick_. It does, though. He does feel sick. His stomach has plummeted and he’s light-headed, barely registers the heavy hand resting on his shoulder.

“Maybe we should have a talk”, Sledge cuts in, the voice of reason, directed towards Smoke as if _he_ needed a stern talking to.

“Have a talk with this dickhead”, Smoke barks a reply.

“What about?”

His eyes almost bug out at Mark’s innocently-posed question. “What – are you shitting me right now? Are you telling me your grandiose mind can’t think of a single fucking reason why I -” He’s losing it, yelling so loudly it echoes in the corridor outside and he wouldn’t be surprised if he was performing for an audience. Performing is the correct word – he feels as if this was a bad play to which everyone else has been given the script except for him, so he’s doomed to bumble around aimlessly, make a fool of himself by not delivering the expected lines. Sledge doesn’t know, how could he, and Mark… he’s bloody _Mark_ , of course he’s clueless and cold and callous. Smoke deflates all of a sudden, emptiness filling his chest and replacing his fury. “Whatever. Fuck. Just leave me alone. Don’t talk to me.”

Like a petulant child, he kicks his bag towards the bunk bed because of _course_ he’s going to be sharing one with Mark, and right before he turns to leave, Mark offers him his music player.

His face is impassive though his intention is clear. Smoke only witnessed him give it away once. To him. Even now the gesture turns parts of his insides to liquid, leaves him weak. _He’s alright. He’s fine._ And most importantly of all: _he’s here_.

“I don’t fucking want your stinking music”, he hisses as he snatches it out of Mark's hands, “you ruin everything. Cunt.” When he storms out, Sledge’s gaze follows him, genuinely dumbstruck whereas Mark gives nothing away. As usual.

 

He manages to bum a few smokes from one of the Russians and escapes outside, seeking shelter from the sweltering sun on one side of the building where he slumps over on a grassy patch, leaning against a wall. Though he’s given up the habit almost a year ago, he occasionally indulges when feeling unusually overwhelmed or stressed. The familiar burn in his lungs helps calm him down, centre him and allows him to stay away from a worse habit scratching at the back of his mind. His conviction on it is still frail.

It’s been a while since he last listened to this kind of music. There are a few artists he doesn’t recognise so he shies away from them but the majority he knows, has heard running in the background before when he’d been over at Mark’s or the other way around. Wherever they were, he needed noise, something to fill the silence, and he kept choosing Smoke over his music even if he didn’t relinquish it entirely. After they – after Mark – afterwards, Smoke avoided chaotic music like the plague, either ensuring there was no noise whatsoever or turning on the radio with its catchy four-four time songs, safe and comfortable, familiar even after the first listen, the songs predictable. What’s assaulting his ears now is the complete opposite. And with it come memories.

After he’s finished the last cigarette in the pack, their taste too strong for him and yet he inhaled them one after the other, there’s footsteps. Mark joins him, sits down by his side and crosses his legs, gently pulls out one of the earbuds and listens in for a while. Paradoxically, his presence is calming, the slow rise and fall of his chest Smoke catches out of the corner of his eye relaxing. Eventually, he speaks up: “A solo project by a French guy. He plays around with samples and all kinds of instruments and the result is never cohesive.”

Smoke rubs at his eyes, refusing to hide it, and sniffs once, croaks: “Sounds pretty fucked up.”

“Yep.” Mark seems to take his shaky assessment as a compliment. They listen some more to the irregular mixture of diverse styles. “You look good. Not as scrawny as you once were.”

“Your _face_ is scrawny”, Smoke protests without any real heat behind his words. His wrath has completely faded now and allowed for some of the void to creep back, his emotions overall subdued. He refuses to let sadness or regret settle in and so the only alternative is nothing – he knows he should be overjoyed at the prospect of working together with Mark and all these other skilled people, but for the moment, he can’t muster up the willpower to be grateful or even cheery. First of all, he should address what just happened. “You know I didn’t mean -”

“No”, Mark interrupts him instantly, “you did mean it. I could tell. It’s okay, as long as you feel better now.”

Their eyes meet and Smoke had to draw a stuttering breath – how often did he imagine this moment before and how _differently_. In the wake of his outburst, he can’t remain blind to the consequences of Mark’s presence here, of all places. Sledge unequivocally called them a team. They’re going to share a room, brave missions side by side, essentially live together. Isn’t this what he’d once been dreaming? Being able to spend quality time with his best mate, unimpeded by enviers, with an interesting job on top? Yet the betrayal still eats at him. Mark isn’t going to bring it up himself and Smoke is too proud to do it himself. So he better gloss over it. “Yeah, I do”, he says quietly. “You haven’t changed a lick.”

It’s true, Mark looks exactly as he remembered him, all boyish charm and carefully schooled expressions and composed demeanour. The same applies to his other side, too, the distance, the lack of emotions and empathy, the unwavering professionalism. “Want me to tell you about the White Masks?”

Smoke nods and hands the player back to its owner before getting up and stretching his legs. “Let’s walk a bit, I can concentrate better.”

Mark unfolds himself and where others might’ve mentioned they were glad to see an old friend, he merely responds: “Maybe you should tell me what you know about them first so I can fill in the blanks.”

 

They walk around the grounds for so long that Sledge comes looking for them, clearly concerned; it would’ve been endearing if he didn’t look like every skinnier rugby player’s worst nightmare. Genuinely confused over Smoke’s complete change of heart, he accepts the brief answers Mark supplies and scarpers again to find something which makes more sense to him.

Smoke savours the way his mind works in Mark’s presence, always enjoys how it feels sharpened, accurate, twisting in unfamiliar ways, associations quicker, creativity overflowing. Snippets of information he thought forgotten claw their way back up from his subconsciousness, connections are drawn, new data eagerly accepted and processed. They discuss political climates and entanglements at length, the terrorists’ place in the grand scheme of things and how correct Six’s judgement of the current situation is. Mark thinks it prudent of her to reinstate Rainbow, both of them have witnessed first hand how much of a difference a few handful of men can make and in an organisation like this, all operators benefit from contact with other special forces.

Mark provides him with more detailed descriptions of the other men and women currently occupying the base, helping Smoke tell them apart and enlightening him on their special skillsets. He praises Sledge for his excellent leadership qualities and mentions Thatcher to be one of the best known blades in the Regiment, leaving Smoke guessing. In fact, Mark appears to approve of all members in Rainbow so far, astonishingly – he’s usually quick to criticise and find faults when prompted. Rainbow, however, seems to meet his expectations.

It’s frightening how easily they slip into old behavioural patterns, Smoke playing off Mark’s concerns with light-hearted jokes before delving into the topic seriously, Mark taking his off-hand remarks into consideration and analysing their value, both of them working like a well-oiled, jagged and convoluted machine which produces banter and ideas alike. For a while it’s as if they never were apart, as if they never – as if Christmas hadn’t happened and as if the past months hadn’t happened.

And yet, something is off.

Mark must’ve gotten some field experience because he effortlessly juggles weapon names, tactical manoeuvrers and military abbreviations at a speed that gives Smoke whiplash. He mentions nothing of the sort, actually gives nothing away about his occupation after their last meeting, never asks how Smoke has been doing in the meantime either. His avoidance strikes a chord. He’s always been reserved but in this case, it feels like he _knows_ he wouldn’t like the answers or reactions he’d get. It feels deliberate. And Smoke isn’t used to him acting like this on purpose.

 

After the initial rocky start, settling in at the base is a breeze. Ash (and yes, after she reminds him she’s called Eliza and not Ashley or Ashlynn, he remembers) repeatedly tells him to fuck off, one of the Russians propagates the rumour that Smoke chose his nickname after his preferred way of dying, the French doctor voices vague threats ultimately meant to keep him from endangering his own health, and an eternally relieved Sledge discusses tactics with Smoke and Mark, slipping further and further into a broad Scottish dialect which culminates in him turning to the four Spetsnaz next to him at dinner and asking: “Whit aboot a wee challenge, eh, lads? Ye versus us an’ th’ loser has tae man the cuiker fer a week.”

According to Sledge, Six is in favour of all operators training with each other, be it hand-to-hand combat, a shooting competition or simply running – it would be a team building exercise, promote contact between the different units and broaden their horizon, not to mention the tactical advantages a mixture of various battle styles will bring. With Spetsnaz and the SAS being the only completed teams so far (as soon as Thatcher joins them), Sledge is curious to pitch them against each other in a friendly challenge.

The Russians stare at him blankly for a second, then turn to each other and begin animatedly chattering away in their mother tongue, two of them seemingly in favour of the proposal, two apparently against it. Amidst the commotion, Smoke notices Mark’s constipated expression, obviously holding back laughter. “What?”, he quietly wants to know and only gets a helpless shake of the head as a response.

After a heated discussion, the guy called Fuze turns to Sledge and deadpans: “We have no fucking idea what you just said.”

Once Smoke is done laughing at Sledge’s dejected face, he repeats the offer in proper English and together, they negotiate the nature of the competition, relevant rules and all sorts of details. In the end, they decide on an exercise as common as it is familiar to all of them: one of the teams takes position in their assigned training building and fortifies, after which the other team attempts to charge, infiltrate or besiege their opponents, ultimately trying to take them out in weaponless combat. The first team to neutralise the other will be declared winner and not required to clean the shower and toilets for a month (the initial idea of having to cook gets discarded after Smoke recounts how he’s set fire to four different kitchens in his lifetime – one of which, incidentally, Mark’s).

The remaining operators (Ash, Thermite, Twitch and Doc, as Smoke now knows) start to listen in as well halfway through, so Kapkan indicates them after everyone has agreed on the terms and proclaims: “We should include them as well. We want the angry doctor and the pretty lady.”

“Over my dead fucking body”, Smoke replies with feeling, “you’re not gonna nick both.”

“I’m not gonna join forces with the Russkies, just so you know”, Thermite chimes in jokingly.

“You can have the witch and the worm, we’re taking the croissants”, Fuze repeated.

The male FBI’s face darkens. “My name is _Thermite_ , not _termite_ , you idjit.”

“How about we split their teams up? Ash and Twitch are on our side, Doc and Thermite on yours?”, Smoke suggests diplomatically, earning the ire of almost everyone involved.

“Hey, you got the bald man already, we deserve at least the elegant baguette!”

“I’m not leaving Doc’s side.”

“Why is this even a debate? Fuckin’ Thermite stays with me and I’m _not_ helping the communists.”

“Ash, you’re endearing but please shut your mouth, your dumb is showing.”

The redhead looks about ready to sock Smoke when Mark interjects: “We’re fine with Ash and Thermite.” The others turn to him as he withstands their gazes calmly, music playing in his ears, body relaxed. “Let’s do it tomorrow afternoon.”

It’s the first time Smoke witnesses a group of people accepting one of Mark’s suggestions without protest. Due to his age and relative inexperience, he’s rarely treated as an equal, used to being second-guessed and disregarded. Maybe the others were allowed the chance to witness his genius first hand or they simply believed everyone to be recruited by Rainbow competent and _worthy_ , but whatever it is, Smoke is beginning to understand why Mark seemed so content talking about the organisation.

When they file out of the canteen, Smoke hisses: “You know something the others don’t?”

Mark answers with a shrug. “GIGN are among the best shots on the planet, but they don’t excel in close quarters or weaponless combat. We’re going to need every edge we can get, going up against Spetsnaz in hand to hand is dangerous. Also, I’ve seen Ash’s left hook. You should probably stop teasing her if you don’t want to get knocked the hell out.”

 

In a way, it’s like visiting a friend who still lives with his parents for the first time. Interacting with him in any other setting follows a certain set of rules and patterns established over the course of weeks and months, it’s easy, oddly predictable – but at home, guidelines shift, not every thought is allowed to be spoken, some things need to be downplayed, kept secret, exaggerated, and there’s always feeling like a third wheel when people who are intimately familiar with each other make inside jokes, exchange meaningful glances lost on any outsider.

This awkwardness sits in Smoke’s bones as he watches Mark interact with the rest of Rainbow. With how fiercely jealousy flares up in him, one might think Mark had cast him aside, yet its origin is no more than an accumulation of small gestures, casual inquiries, quick remarks. Doc consults him on something, nothing more than four sentences, and Smoke is painfully reminded that Mark must’ve been one of the first to be recruited with how familiar he is with everyone as well as the facilities in Hereford themselves. He provides directions to the newly arrived Spetsnaz, discusses electronics with the Frenchwoman and offers a few monosyllabic replies to Sledge’s efficient questions. For an entire day, it’s not much, especially since he hovers around Smoke the rest of the time, plays on his phone or concentrates on his music when Smoke is conversing with someone himself, but he’s never before seen Mark talk to others this much.

He needs to eradicate this urge to monopolise him, and fast. Belatedly, he understands Mark’s eye rolling when he jokingly went ‘you have _friends_?’ a perceived decade ago because he quite clearly is capable of communicating without upsetting people left and right, yet merely chose not to do so in Belfast. Not that Smoke can blame him when their company was akin to stale bread.

Mark is content here. This is what it boils down to, and the sharp pang of realisation that he was insufficient, that Mark required more, that he would’ve found happiness in Rainbow with or without him, no matter how readily he falls back into their friendship, a weird mix of early and late stages where they know each other’s favourite songs, colours, meals and underwear fabric while simultaneously figuring out how to navigate certain social situations without upsetting each other. Mark doesn’t need him – and he better accept it. Still, there are two moments during the day when his gaze rests on Smoke for a little too long to be coincidental: once when Smoke confirms to Glaz that he and Mark are good friends, and once when he declines going out for a few drinks. Gives the one answer which might single-handedly crush all hopes of ever holding a higher position in Rainbow, of being invited to an inner circle or his entire social life in general. Devastating.

“Where did you go?”, his big mouth gets the better of him later, chin resting on Mark’s elevated mattress and eyes carefully avoiding all the naked skin of his arms, face, neck into which he wants to bury his teeth. Not even sexually.

“What are you on about?” Mark knows exactly what he’s on about. Sometimes he plays dumb so people leave him alone.

“Half a year ago. When you up and disappeared.”

“Does it matter?”

“In the grand bloody scheme of things, no, I suppose the universe doesn’t fucking care about where you went.”

His sarcasm is met with amusement and allows him to understand that Mark genuinely believes it’s not a big deal. He’s acting as if Smoke was ranting about gas prices or his sister maybe, and not the jagged scar on his soul, as if this was just another late night on his couch, crazy guitar riffs making up the soundtrack to their latest debate while sipping – anything, really. Smoke would take anything just about now.

“I’m here now, aren’t I”, Mark points out gently and every word he _doesn’t_ say leaves an imprint in Smoke’s mind. It’s necessary for his sanity not to broach this topic again.

 

Sledge asks both of them to accompany him to the helipad for Thatcher’s arrival the next morning and as soon as said operator jumps out of the vehicle, it becomes glaringly obvious _why_ – what might look like an older man in good shape but otherwise largely nondescript to others is actually a living legend. Smoke recognises him instantly even after only having met him once and feels excitement bubble up inside him; if he needed any additional confirmation Rainbow is to be an assemblage of the most skilled special forces, this is it. Even Mark, who’s unlikely to have met him in person, seemed thrilled.

Thatcher remains unperturbed by the Scotsman’s imposing presence, exuding an aura of professionalism and stoicism himself. They exchange greetings as introductions are apparently unnecessary, then Thatcher moves on to Mark, shaking his hand firmly. “Looking forward to working with you, son”, he tells him.

“Likewise”, Mark replies simply. Smoke corrects himself: either they met previously as well or Thatcher is an excellent judge of character since he deems the curt answer satisfactory instead of slightly rude.

“I’m Smoke and it’s excellent to see you, sir”, Smoke addresses him overly politely to make a good first impression for as long as the penny hasn’t dropped. “As far as I was aware, everyone held the opinion you’d stay in service until you drop dead one day while still wearing your ratty SAS wear. Glad to see it’s gonna be a different uniform.”

Thatcher narrows his eyes and searches his face. Something must click, his gaze drops to the hand he’s currently holding and Smoke willingly twists his wrist to show him the scar on the back of it. The sudden short bark of a laugh he earns startles him, Mark and Sledge alike. “You’re Jamie bloody Porter!”, Thatcher announces and slaps his upper arm hard enough to hurt. “You’re a raving lunatic! How’d you end up _here_? When they recruited me, I thought they had good taste but fucking hell, was I mistaken.”

“Slept my way up, how else? What did _you_ do? Haunt Six for a week by rattling your brittle bones in her general direction before she took pity on you and let you in?”

“Fuck off, I can at least be trusted with a knife without having everyone worry about it ending up in my own foot somehow. I’m going to hate working with you, won’t I?”

“Oh yes”, Smoke confirms and the two of them grin at each other good-naturedly. They worked together once and immediately established discord on many topics which mattered, yet accepted each other regardless, leading to endless banter much to the chagrin of everyone around them. It was very early in Smoke’s career in the Regiment so he’s both astounded and pleased Thatcher remembers him and possibly kept an eye on him as well – especially because Mike Baker, Thatcher’s real name, is famous throughout the SAS for excellent service over several decades now.

“Is this going to become a trend?”, Sledge interjects exasperatedly, “Are you going to insult every new member of Rainbow you meet?” He’s noticeably troubled about how Smoke’s behaviour might reflect on him despite the fact Thatcher is clearly enjoying himself.

“Don’t worry, he’s like a dog, tire him out and he’ll give you no trouble”, Thatcher assures him. “I hope someone’s regularly fighting him so he’s busy enough not to start gnawing on shoes. You can probably do that, Seamus, just hold him with an outstretched arm and let him exhaust himself trying to hit you.”

“I’d just jump on his back and hide there. He’d never find me and would have to give up.”

“You wouldn’t run away from a challenge like that”, Mark says with a small smile and of course, he’s absolutely correct. Not only because of his pride – Smoke would _relish_ the chance to fatigue himself to the point where sleeping standing up sounds like a reasonable suggestion.

“Hey, and you, son”, Thatcher turns to Mark, “you’re clever. Clever enough to choose your company a tad more carefully. You sure you want to hang around with someone who’s absolutely bonkers?”

“Yep.” No hesitation.

“Great, looks like we’ve got a team then.”

 

A few hours later, Smoke makes his grand debut in Rainbow, the organisation meant to be the brilliant new prodigy in eradicating terrorism in the world, by pulling a knife out of his torso and coughing up blood, both actions intimately familiar to him.

It’s preceded by probably the most boring meeting he’s ever attended and it couldn’t even have been summed up in an e-mail – except for maybe a sheer never ending chain of mails with half the people being confused and the other half yelling at the first half to stop hitting _reply all_ and eventually complaining about the scheduling for an event long passed. Even Mark’s initial enthusiasm dies down after ten minutes and though he refuses to participate in Smoke’s endeavour to spit scraps of paper he rolled into balls at the bin, his unimpressed features fail to hide his exasperation.

He gets it. They want to make a name for themselves and what better way is there than triumphing in their first unofficial training exercise? He’d love to kick some Russian ass himself, but he’s unwilling to memorise the layout of the building by heart and mull over tactics employed in the First World War just to pretty up his internal reputation.

“We could take a similar approach to one favoured in my younger years”, Thatcher announces, and the thick accent rolling off his tongue which he doesn’t bother to hide is partly what sets Smoke off.

“Two hundred years ago then”, he cuts in. “Or we could keep doing what we’re doing, which is _bore_ them to death. Go out for some chips and come back in a few hours when they’ve swarmed out looking for us, and the building’s ours. Piece of cake.”

“Not very sportsmanlike”, Sledge points out and Smoke wants to ask him when he last saw a referee gallivanting around on one of his missions, calling fouls and sending uncooperative criminals to the bench.

“What’s your suggestion then, moron?”

He’s long decided he likes Ash and noticed she appreciates him as an opportunity to further sharpen her tongue. They’re going to get along swimmingly even if everyone else will continue to assume they hate each other’s guts. “I actually have the best proposition of all. They’ll be prepared for both an efficient surprise attack as well as a slow approach, no doubt.”

“I have a feeling I know what you’re about to say”, Thatcher grumbles and places his foot against the front leg of Smoke’s chair which is halfway in the air as he’s balancing on the hind legs in order to not go completely insane due to lack of stimulation, “and if you do, you’re gonna eat shit.”

“We can wing it.” His self-satisfied grin finds no mirrors, though Mark’s lips twitch for a moment. The team stares at him in disbelief. “Look, they can’t know what we’re up to if we don’t either.”

Once he’s gotten back up, he’s thrown out of the room and left to roam the base by himself which honestly suits him just fine. He despises politics and as soon as Thermite uttered concern about not being taken seriously enough by the Spetsnaz and therefore arguing the necessity of impressing them, he was out of the conversation anyway. Their ideas sound almost bookish to him, uninspired, and entirely too safe – in close quarters, they’re going to be outmatched, especially since the goal of the exercise is to split them up, have them fight one on one and ultimately tally up the score. Neither of them is going to win against any of the bulky Russians, no matter how well-planned their ambush is. They need something different.

If the opposing team hadn’t holed up in their designated building yet and indubitably already controlled its cameras, he would’ve spied on them, but like this all he can do is let his mind and body wander until creativity strikes. And oh, does it ever.

An hour later he’s gorged himself on a superb sandwich, finally replied to his mum in their family group chat, earning a snark from Chris for which he’ll have to elbow her in the ribs next time they’re in the same room, and even answers Ryan’s message which is meant to sound professional though his concern inevitably bleeds through.

He doesn’t mention Mark in his response.

After getting picked up by a decidedly stressed Sledge, he’s quickly updated on their final plan during which he goes deaf in protest, nodding along politely and trying to remember the tune to some cartoon he watched as a kid – Chris mentioned it and now it won’t leave him alone.

“Repeat it”, Mark addresses him unexpectedly.

Smoke blinks at him.

This time, he’s _forced_ to follow, successfully drones out the battle plan with an eye roll once Sledge has repeated it two more times and only then is allowed to fetch his gear, as if he had to show his homework to his parents now and then before he could go out and play with his friends. Flashbangs are allowed, smoke grenades aren’t and when Thatcher mentions it’s because they could pose a health hazard, Smoke feels oddly addressed. Once equipped, they file out in teams of two, and though Smoke would’ve preferred to have Mark by his side, he guesses that Sledge’s company isn’t incidental.

“You guys need to promise me one thing though”, Smoke tells his team, fully expecting none of them to pay much attention to his words. “When I say _get ‘em_ , you get ‘em. Alright?”

“Who says that you’ll get to call any shots?”

Instead of providing a reply, Smoke just winks at Thermite and then hurries after Sledge who’s almost rounded the building already. Adrenaline is building up, it’s almost showtime and Smoke is bloody _thrilled,_ basically bouncing on his feet in excitement and not letting Sledge’s calm professionalism dull the glint in his eye. “They’re all in the attic, by the way”, Smoke lies smoothly, making the Scotsman pause mid-communication via walkie-talkie. “I overheard them yesterday – I speak a bit of Russian. Their plan is to tackle us together.”

“Why the fuck would you wait until _now_ to tell us?”, Sledge hisses not unreasonably.

“You wouldn’t know in a real mission until now either. Imagine we just droned them out. But we should definitely start at the top.” This is the most fun he’s had in years.

The hesitation is expected and so he’s not upset, after all they’ve known each other for barely a day. “Can I trust you, lad?”

“You can always trust me”, Smoke replies in earnest. It sounds like something OJ would’ve said and feels strange, almost fuzzy on his tongue. For a moment he wonders whether Mark’s presence would be easier to bear with him by Smoke’s side. Discarding the thought, he listens gleefully as Sledge relays the information, changes their plan and tells them to rappel up to the top floor, smash in a few of the loosely-boarded up windows and otherwise stay out of sight, keep their opponents guessing while devising a new approach. Smoke and Sledge end up on a balcony, peering in through an empty window and seeing bugger all.

“Climb in behind the crates on the Eastern side”, Sledge mutters, directed at Ash. “Thatch, you and Mark take North. We make a wide sweep, clearing behind the -”

Casually, Smoke reaches out and pulls the pin from one of the flashbangs on Sledge’s belt. And this is where the chaos starts.

Among a smattering of extremely vulgar curses, the Scot tosses the grenade inside and watches helplessly as Smoke jumps in right after it goes off. The other four on their team assume this to be some sort of signal and rush the large, almost entirely open space to take down one very unfortunate, very disoriented Doc who apparently suffered the brunt of the stun grenade. Huh. Fancy that – they even had someone stationed in the attic.

While Ash and Thermite fight over who’s going to keep the Frenchman pinned down, Thatcher, Mark and Sledge standing around like dumbasses, clearly confused as to where the Russian army they’re meant to fight disappeared, Smoke hears footsteps. The commotion drew everyone’s attention and the sounds of pissy American arguing make it obvious that stealth is optional for this mission, therefore the rest of Doc’s team is now rushing in to help, causing an all out brawl worthy of being staged in a pub instead of an SAS base.

Grinning from ear to ear, Smoke dodges the first punch Tachanka throws at him, ducks under the second and jabs him in the crotch before dashing to the side of the battlefield to get a good look: Thatcher’s fist collides with Glaz’ face hard enough that Smoke is impressed he doesn’t see any teeth flying, Thermite faceplants after Twitch swipes at his leg with precise aim, Mark is getting his ass handed to him by Kapkan and Sledge took over for him with Tachanka, the two heavy-set men wrestling with each other instead of kicking and hitting. In their midst, Ash is perched on Doc’s backside, having twisted his arm on his back and loudly cheering for her teammate or maybe for the woman currently beating him up – it’s not entirely clear.

Almost everyone is accounted for, and it leaves only -

When Smoke hits the ground, hard, all air is expelled from his lungs in a geriatric cough and Fuze’s face above him might as well be the last thing he sees on this earth with how determined he looks to snuff out whatever is left of Smoke’s miserable life. He’s superior to Smoke in every physical aspect imaginable and would only have to sit on him to ensure Smoke couldn’t escape, and thus he suffers several painful punches during the short scuffle which follows. Fuze is by far the more skilled fighter and therefore Smoke reaches into his pocket, grabs a fistful of sand and throws it in the Uzbek’s face.

Gargled swears in an entirely unfamiliar language as well as blind kicks follow him as he scrambles away, jumps up to his feet and discerns that Mark needs his help. In fact, almost his entire team does, even Ash got dragged off of Doc and slammed into the nearest wall, and the rest is either faring poorly or long out. There’s no doubt of who is going to get blamed for this disaster.

Dodging stray limbs on his way, he hurries over to Mark and considers utilising the itching powder he found in one of the many closets around the base, but determines that a simple punch in Kapkan’s kidneys is probably enough to distract him. Together with Mark, they hold him down for exactly as long as it takes for Fuze to stop retching and spitting sand and stomp over, and then it’s almost horror-like how Mark gets snatched from Smoke’s peripheral vision with a broken yelp. A painful hit in the guts, and then Kapkan has rolled them around to use Smoke as his throne, declaring his team as the unanimous winner.

All Brits and Americans are pinned down with no chance of escape, most of them glaring fiercely at Smoke, except for Mark who merely pulls a face as if this went just like he thought it would. Silence befalls the room.

“That was almost too easy”, Tachanka grunts and before his fellow countrymen can huff their approval, Smoke starts screaming.

“Ow!! Fuck, get off me, what the bloody – shit, fuck, ow, are you fucking serious?!”

Startled, Kapkan tightens his hold automatically before he understands that this isn’t part of their game and relents, allows for Smoke to scramble to his feet where he sways uneasily, face contorted. He’s clutching his side, awkwardly pulls something out of it and holds up a pocket knife, blade extended and smeared crimson. “You brought a fucking knife?”, he spits at the Russian who looks utterly gobsmacked. “Fuck. I swear, if this needs stitches -” And then he coughs, violently so, nearly bends in half and afterwards wipes his glove on his clothes. It leaves a bright red stain. “I don’t – I’m a little dizzy.”

The others have started breaking up now, visibly concerned, moving towards him while several angry comments are flung in Kapkan’s direction who remains speechless, gaping at the blood-soaked fabric over Smoke’s ribs.

“Let’s get you to my office”, Doc speaks up, now all business, and that’s when Smoke quickly says: “Team, you’ve got handcuffs in your breast pocket, and now GET ‘EM!”

Unsurprisingly, Mark reacts first. Mark, whose genuinely worried expression was as touching as it was misplaced – because Smoke is absolutely _giddy_ at this point, barely containing the giggles threatening to escape his throat. There’s a second scuffling, another fight, though this one a lot shorter. And it ends with the entire opposing team handcuffed, on the floor, and royally pissed.

Except for Kapkan, who now regards him with a look so cold it drops the temperature by a few degrees. “You’re fine.” It’s not a question, and yet Smoke nods, grin almost painful, before spitting out the blood capsule (and he’d rather remain quiet about its origin). “I’m going to knock you the fuck out.”

“I thought you might”, he replies pleasantly and doesn’t even flinch when Kapkan fulfils his promise.

 

His pounding headache fades before the fact that warm hands are running over his chest in a more revitalising way than a defibrillator ever could, mostly because he’s instantly and achingly reminded of that one night in which a dip in his mattress woke him up and first rewarded him with everything he ever wanted, then later took it away together with his spine, sense of self-worth and _heart_. Only it turns out that instead of being part of an oddly tangible dream, they indeed belong to Mark; Mark who is feeling him up with a frown while loud voices argue a few feet away, still in the largely bare attic.

He almost jumps when he notices Smoke’s eyes on him and quickly withdraws his fingers out of Smoke’s uniform. “Wanted to make sure you really weren’t hurt”, he murmurs, sheepish, but he’s not out of line: Smoke did consider stabbing himself for better effect. It’s just – he’d rather not spend his second day at Rainbow in hospital. “Is this ketchup?”

“Yeah”, Smoke confirms and feels amusement tug on his lips when Mark curiously licks his red fingertips. “And a few other things.” Mark immediately spits it back out, grimaces wildly and scowls at Smoke’s chuckle. “I don’t think it’s going to come out of the fabric, it’s partly industrial dye.”

“Seamus is gonna have your head, you ruined your uniform on the second day. Your poor shirt.”

It’s only then that Smoke registers his own legs are propped up on one of Mark’s bent knees to ensure enough blood flow to his brain. Not like he doesn’t need it. “Don’t tell me you were worried, I’m not that fragile.” _Anymore_ , he doesn’t say and earns a _look_ in return.

“You managed to piss literally everyone off. Mike had to explain we weren’t in on it, Seamus thought it wasn’t fair, Doc is offended that you’d joke about injuries and no one knows where the keys to the handcuffs are.” It’s impressive how furious the Russians can look even with their hands on their backs. “Fuze has been dancing the entire time because he’s got sand in his undies. I think only Manu and maybe Alexsandr manage to see the humour in this.”

And Mark himself of course. It’s apparent in his relaxed demeanour and the fact that he touched Smoke of his own accord – but it’s better not to follow this thought for too long. “Manu, eh?”

Him being on a first name basis with his colleagues is a miracle in and of itself, but him using a nickname is even rarer. He smiles and glances at the young woman attempting to calm down her indignant teammate. “She’s great”, Mark says earnestly. “I like her.”

Mark doesn’t like people. He despises crowds enough as it is, grumbles whenever they’re forced to interact with civilians, prefers cutting his own hair to going to the hairdresser and maintains a worryingly disillusioned view of humanity. Even when there are some he finds agreeable, he shows it through small gestures rather than stating it outright – Smoke knows them all, the friendly nod for one of Mark’s neighbours, how readily he aided one of the guards in Belfast, favours here and there, awkward small talk instead of stony silence. But he’d never admit to it.

He’s overcome with a sudden urge to faint again, wake up once more and realise it was all a dream. He’d gladly get punched again for it, as often as it takes because anything is better than this dreadful feeling settling in. Momentarily, he’s uncertain of its origin, but then it hits Smoke full force. Like a freight train.

He’s not over him.

 

There’s nothing in his life which has ever come back to rip him to shreds this ferociously, not him lying about his marks in school, not him registering for the military with a fake ID, not fucking his sister’s first boyfriend, not his nan’s death, not even the goddamn void that was Belfast in its entirety. He does get the usual pangs of guilt and melancholia, builds up what-if scenarios as beautiful castles in the sky, and wallows in self-pity now and then. Who doesn’t?

But he never gets overwhelmed by it. The closest he got was in the time after – after he was abandoned, fingers shaking with how much he wanted to pour amber liquid down his gullet while simultaneously pressing down on his chest wound to stop the bleeding. Yet even then he didn’t cry. Well, not much. Not often. Tried to distract himself instead of letting it happen. If he’s honest, he doesn’t remember much because it was one long nightmare: being irreparably damaged and knowing he’d have to live with this for the rest of his existence, his tongue cut out, body mutilated, lobotomised. He couldn’t find the right words to say no matter in which situation, felt hideous and pitiful, and his mind refused to comply.

Without OJ, he was a different person, but less divergent and more… incomplete. Missing a lot of vital parts. People turned their backs on him because he just wasn’t _fun_ anymore, remember when Jamie Porter was still good for a laugh? Always had a witty remark ready or was eager to play a prank, his banter first class and mind as sharp as Mike Baker’s knife. No, his own shadow of who he’d been surpassed the sorry silhouette creeping through hallways like an abandoned pet no one wanted anymore.

If Ryan hadn’t promised him a reassignment, he would’ve ended it. Belfast seemed like a suitable tomb for him.

Life lost its spikes. A colleague died and Smoke felt mild sorrow, his dad remembered his birthday and it prompted no smile. His emotional range was about as crippled as his self esteem which is why Rainbow felt like a gift from the heavens. The more he learnt, the brighter he beamed until he was at full capacity again eventually, remembered how to look forward to something and how to work towards a goal. It was meant to be a reset. It was meant to be his future.

It wasn’t meant to end with him hiding in a toilet stall while sobbing so hard he can’t breathe.

Part of it is the realisation of Mark being enough to make him happy, as dumb and simple as it sounds – but he has no doubt, as long as they were together, he could endure anything, Belfast, daily torture, his family; all he needed was to know Mark was his and he’d gladly walk over hot coals. And now he has the confirmation that it’s not going to happen. Mark is as aloof as always, avoiding intimacy like a rare disease and basically interchangeable with the person Smoke got to know more than a year ago. Christmas means nothing to him, that one night means nothing to him, and, ultimately, Smoke means nothing to him.

By his side, Mark would’ve been dissatisfied in Belfast, yet here in Rainbow he’s content regardless. Mark made it, climbed the career ladder to the top, made it into an extremely exclusive unit and probably figures he’s set for life now. It’s all he ever wanted, judging by the mild disdain with which he observed most of the people stationed with them.

The promise of Rainbow allowed Smoke to experience endless joy again, and consequently also re-opened the possibility of crushing despair. Mark doesn’t want him, not like Smoke wants him. Mark might find someone else, come out of his shell without Smoke’s prodding. And despite all, he’s still overcome with the suffocating desire to be special to him, the first person he turns to when he thinks of something mildly interesting, the first person to whom he admits when he messed up, the first person to enter his mind no matter the context. He might not even be granted this much.

 

He had the presence of mind to choose the unused women’s bathroom and stays until his face doesn’t feel swollen anymore. No one knows who eventually won, different answers are given depending on who’s asked, and Smoke finds he doesn’t even care, not after Mark defended him against Sledge’s scathing evaluation of his actions (the man never minces his words and has a talent to hit where it hurts), claiming that while Smoke’s tactic was indeed a tad unfair and certainly unconventional, it’s their job to react appropriately to whatever is thrown in their way.

“You should be happy there’s someone here who’s putting your improvisational skills to the test”, Mark said and Smoke wanted to shake him, break his ribs by clinging to him too hard, engage in yet another brawl – anything to force down words fighting their way up his throat, struggling to set his tongue in motion and bypass his brain in the process. No, his brain was entirely uninvolved with this sudden barrage of confessions threatening to spill over.

Instead, he’s here while the others are out in some pub.

“I don’t drink”, he told them and Mark sent him a smile he wanted to tear off with his teeth.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, the Germans arrive. It’s three blokes, one of them clearly homeless with an unkempt beard and tattoos all over, one a vaguely stressed, lanky nerd and the last an easygoing, polite lad who’d probably believe Smoke if he told him clementines are named after Clermont-Ferrand and only allowed to be called clementines if they come from that region, just like champagne. He’s painfully naive but allegedly competent, and so Smoke already makes plans to pick on him as much as possible. The woman is an utter workaholic, all her initial questions related to Hereford’s facilities, and since she doesn’t seem the type to enjoy being frenemies like Ash does, he’ll leave her alone.

“The Wi-fi password is really easy”, he assures the only German guy who isn’t built like a twig, “it’s ID ten T. That’s it.”

Blitz, as he called himself for some reason, frowns when all he receives is an error message. “Are you sure? Is it capitalised?”

“Yes, all of it is.”

“How do I capitalise numbers”, Blitz murmurs to himself while switching through all available keyboards on his phone and Smoke almost feels bad for him. Almost. Because he still doesn’t get it, despite the ID10T staring at him in the face. Maybe he needs a different victim – it’s only half as entertaining when the person doesn’t understand they’re being made fun of.

“Hilarious”, someone else cuts in drily and Smoke registers the smell accompanying the one called Bandit as his new source of cigarettes. After his stunt the previous day, he doubts the Russians will extend their generosity to him for a while. “Next you’ll ask him to fetch some blinker fluid for the nerds.” A thumb points in the direction Smoke has kept carefully unfocused but he can no longer pretend that Mark and his _Manu_ aren’t getting along well with the other two Germans.

“Oh, do they need it? I can try to find some.”

Bandit and Smoke wordlessly stare at the puppy between them and simultaneously turn away to take a few steps aside, much to Blitz’ confusion. It’s the adults talking now. “I heard of your most recent stunt. Impressive. No attention is bad attention, huh?”

“You sound like a fan.”

“More like a colleague.”

“What about a challenge?”

Bandit’s eyebrows rise, he seems intrigued. “What’s the wager?”

His stench of trouble overlays even the odour of cold smoke surrounding him – attentive eyes keep scanning his surroundings, deceptively casual body language betrays a very conscious approach to interactions with strangers and having recognisable tattoos in their line of work can be a death sentence. He may lack muscle but indubitably makes up for them somehow; Smoke is interested in finding out with what exactly. “Seamus, the big bald bloke, is responsible for dishing out disciplinary action. Whoever lands in his office first wins. And whoever loses has to blow the winner.”

It’s risky. Gay jokes sometimes backfire horribly and brand him as a weirdo forever, sometimes are met with appropriate amusement and sometimes reveal a few interesting things about the recipient. In this case, Bandit’s surprised laugh seems to indicate the middle ground. “No way. You probably fuck everything that moves, I’d rather not catch whatever it is you collected along the way.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure they produce condoms with sauerkraut flavour these days.”

“Fuck you”, Bandit replies good-naturedly. “Whoever wins owes a favour, how about that?”

“Yes”, Smoke says slowly as if the German had trouble keeping up, “like I said… a blowjob.”

“So it’s a win-win no matter what.”

_Oh_. There you go. And with this, Bandit has landed himself smack in the middle of the third category, though Smoke suspects the man would freely admit to quite a few things if asked anyway. He re-evaluates him, the lithe body, nonchalant smirk, expectant expression, and deems him attractive in a gruff way, the confidence bleeding through enough to convince Smoke that this is a guy who’d slap his ass during sex without needing to be prompted. Almost staggering how much he’s Mark’s opposite. “A favour then”, he agrees.

 

And from then on, what little time isn’t fully consumed by drills, physical training, refreshers ranging from Most Common Types Of Bombs And What To Do When Faced With One to How To Brush Teeth Correctly, gets eaten up by procuring more and more deranged paraphernalia off the internet, putting them to use and recovering from Bandit’s most recent assault. The curtains in the lounge suffer a lethal dose of Bandit’s zip-tied deodorant which he taped to a roomba and then set on fire, Ash ended up hoarse after screaming at Smoke for allegedly wasting her bubble bath and in the process ruining not only the base’s dishwasher but also washing machine, and literally everyone gets tired of passing out regularly due to nitroglycerin applied to innocent-looking door handles.

The last one earns them a massive bollocking from Doc who stresses repeatedly that someone with a more fragile constitution could genuinely suffer from their tasteless ‘prank’ to which Bandit suggests they keep to objects Doc isn’t likely to touch from now on, and when Smoke adds that the shower and tap handles are a safe bet, Doc turns an interesting shade of purple. Even so, Sledge yells at them after the fifth time of running into plastic foil taped across a door perfectly at face level only for him and Montagne, but he doesn’t drag either of them into his office.

The entire time, Smoke feels manic. Mood swings are his new companion and they make their presence known like a scorned lover vying for attention. One day, he’s imbued with restless energy allowing for a morning run, animated chattering during breakfast with whoever is the least pissed at him that day, excelling at whatever professional problem is thrown his way and in the meantime preparing his newest retaliation against Bandit with almost religious zeal – and the next he drags his feet, nearly cries over how little his body and mind cooperate, hides in his lab and watches videos on his phone while curled up under his desk.

Mark is the main reason and it’s fucking pathetic. There are moments where it’s as if he crashed a party and Mark is simply too polite to tell him to read the room, he feels like an ugly possum bumbling around, knocking stuff over while people are trying to make up their minds of whether to pity his cluelessness or be intimidated and therefore stay away. He clings to Mark in desperation, feels him slipping out of his grasp nonetheless with every unqualified remark he makes, with every time he’s contradicted. They’ve lost their ability to be _normal_ around each other, whatever that entails, and it has him wondering how much of their initial friendship was built on isolation and purely on the fact they were the best alternative to each other at the time instead of a conscious decision. He doesn’t want to be circumstantial.

And yet there are times when it’s just like it used to be, quick banter, one wavelength, a shared brain rather than a square peg and a round hole. They bicker Bandit out of the room once, small jabs which he barely catches before they fly over his head, and unable to keep up regardless, and another time they spend an entire evening undisturbed in the lounge, throwing peanut shells at each other while tearing apart a cheesy artsy-fartsy film Montagne, a recent addition to their ranks, recommended. Once it’s over, Mark’s phone plays experimental music which makes Smoke’s head hurt and they talk about whatever is on their minds, Mark’s gadget of which he’s extremely proud, the fact that Tachanka seems to have taken a liking to both Smoke and Bandit, shielding them from his teammates’ ire and asking to bear witness to a few of their shenanigans, Thatcher’s hair slowly turning grey, Six’ way to run the organisation. But also about places they want to visit and places they’ve been, influential lessons they learnt in school, the right way of making tea and a little bit about family.

Mark’s dad drinks. It makes a lot of sense, looking back.

The evening leaves him wanting, wanting so badly that he goes to sleep with vicious longing pounding in his temples, fingertips, legs, so badly that he dreams and wakes up aching, so badly that he fingers himself through a desperate, blinding orgasm in the shower, hoping it cures some of the emptiness lazily devouring him. He feels dirty, guilt souring the afterglow to the point of nausea and when he dares open his eyes again, Bandit is there, eyeing him with interest.

“Nice show”, he says. “Need a partner for the next one?”

It’s so, so tempting to agree. No strings, no expectations, quick and hard and satisfying plus maybe it’ll be something to look forward to now and then. He likes Bandit. After having broken most of his resolutions already, why not throw this one in the wind as well?

“No. But thanks.” His own voice sounds hollow to him.

“Got someone?” He’s not pushing it, which is a welcome surprise, and even starts undressing unselfconsciously. It seems Smoke just landed himself in the friend zone with unwavering precision yet it’s a relief to know that Bandit won’t make another pass unless invited. He’s not sure he’d decline another time.

“I wish.”

“Shit, man.” Bandit turns on his shower which makes Smoke almost miss his next words: “I get it.” And he really looks like he does.

 

After this, his mouth stops obeying him – and not in the fun way, like OJ used to do. It becomes a weapon against Mark, intent on cutting into him regardless of whether he’s vulnerable or not and causes his only real friend to shy away preemptively on a few occasions. Like having kicked a puppy, more guilt settles in to stay and yet he can’t help the piercing words sometimes, hates himself for it but does it nonetheless. He’s driving him away, achieving the one thing he thought undesirable. But maybe that’s what needs to happen.

His performance in Rainbow is important to him like Belfast never was. Boxing is a great way to fall into bed nearly unconscious after a long day, regular meals with interesting people do wonders for his boredom and shooting exercises with the newest Frenchie, Rook, sharpen his focus. Different mindsets from other units help him question the Regiment’s methods in entirely new ways and he’s beginning to find his niche in their composition, to become a regular addition to some of the groups forming over time. Only the fact that he’s lacking his own special gadget stands between him and a comfortable sense of _belonging_.

He’d ask Mark for help but he’s busy these days. They don’t see much of each other after a few weeks, go to sleep and get up at different times, eat with different people, spend their free time apart. And of course, Mark’s the same as always except that he actually becomes remarkably chatty – he talks a lot with his workshop crew, that is to say _at all_ , and together they pore over blueprints and equations and all sorts of stuff Smoke knows nothing about and it’s just one of many fields in which he’s ultimately inadequate.

When he brings up Manu again in one of their largely monosyllabic excuses of a conversation, first thing in the morning, Thatcher long up and Sledge currently getting dressed, Smoke snaps. “Glad to hear you found someone else”, he says bitingly and hey, maybe he shouldn’t have done that, not with how Mark’s brows furrow.

“For what?”

All he wants is to make him smile and all he can do is make his expression harden. “Everything. Why do you even still bother talking to me?”

“Because you’re such a joy to be around.” Sounds like someone accidentally elbowed the sarcasm slider all the way up.

“And whose fault is that?”

“Yours.” Ouch. He could’ve at least pretended to consider his question. “You’re behaving like a complete twat and I don’t know why. Do you want to go over your lab results later?”

Wait. “What?”

An impatient eye roll. “You said you might be onto something the other day, and I want to know whether you’re going to break the Geneva convention or not. Can I just visit you in your secret lair?”

No change in bitchy expression, no change in irritation in his voice, and yet he’s offering his help. As if Smoke’s hurtful remarks were no more than their usual banter and doesn’t this fucking imply he’s been such a gigantic asshole to him that this, all of this has become the new standard? That Mark doesn’t even bat an eye over it? He could choose to cut Smoke loose and frolic with his new friends but, inexplicably, puts up with him instead. Even makes an effort.

“Sure, babe”, his lips reply on their own and this is when annoyance dissolves into relief on Mark’s handsome features. The nickname burns on his lips for minutes, and he nearly slams his forehead into the nearest wall.

 

The emotional rollercoaster continues its ride with him, assuming he’d never ever want to get off. Though maybe it’s more of a wheel he’s forced to spin and oh, our feeling of the hour is crippling regret! Does he want to spin again for a chance of promoting it into existential dread, desperate self-hate, or spiralling depression? Not like these aren’t on the board anyway, but it would provide his guilty conscience with a fruity new flavour, a demotivating cocktail sure to give him a buzz lasting for several hours.

“Your presence here isn’t set in stone”, Sledge snaps and thus repeats a sentiment which has been shining through his words ever since he began his rant. A sentiment which struck fear into Smoke’s heart. “If you’re deemed a liability, you will be removed.”

Next to him, Bandit’s impassive, almost bored face betrays nothing. Smoke briefly wonders how the German manages an unconcerned sprawl like this without being high but remembers that _he_ at least can get drunk later, much unlike Smoke. “We’re not a liability, we’re a riot”, Bandit drawls. “It wasn’t a real grenade anyway.”

“It looked bloody real enough, you knobhead!”

Smoke envisioned the end to their challenge a little more triumphant, possibly accompanied by fanfares and Sledge descending from the heavens to declare one of them the winner, yet instead they got dragged to his office by the scruff of their necks and tossed inside like wet towels, and instead of giving Bandit the finger victoriously as he walks towards earning a favour from a truly frightening and powerful man, they’re both getting yelled at now. Worst of all, it’s a draw. They made IQ think she was going to die for a _draw_.

Wouldn’t it be fitting if he got thrown out of Rainbow for this? He’s fucked up pretty much everything else in his life so far; only his usual, sarcasm-accompanied fatalism doesn’t cut it this time because he really, _really_ likes it here. Creative exchange isn’t just a fancy term used to appease investors but actually taken seriously, even Thatcher begrudgingly admitted that unconventional approaches are at the very least worth considering – and this is even without the fact that they all love their jobs, are genuinely excited to be working with this kind of tech and freedom, encourage each other and challenge themselves to greatness. It’s the healthiest and most motivating environment he’s ever been in, and he realises only now that he actively tried to sabotage it out of _spite_.

That’s what it is. The realisation is sobering. Embarrassing, really. Look at me, Mark, I can make a name for myself without you. I don’t need you, Mark, you hear? You mean nothing to me, I can live a happy life without you, Mark, are you looking? I don’t need your attention.

He glances over at Bandit again who maintains his stony façade effortlessly. If he’s having similar concerns, he’s not letting them show.

Sledge tells him nothing new, so it’s enough to catch a few buzzwords now and then like _responsibility_ and _serious_ and _disappointed_ to get the gist of it, and Smoke spends the rest of his speech dreading the inevitable climax of it, the words telling him it’s all over. Suddenly, he remembers Ryan: _If you weren’t bloody good at what you do, you’d have gotten the boot right after pulling some of the shite you’ve pulled_. Well, in Rainbow he’s far from special.

“Bloody hell, you know what, just piss off, I can tell neither of you are listening.” He puts his bald head in his hands and Smoke feels for him – he wouldn’t want to be his own superior.

“For what it’s worth, now that it’s a draw we’ll dial it back a little”, Bandit tells him in a sympathetic tone of voice before escaping in a rare show of good judgement.

“I don’t even want to know”, Sledge stops Smoke from explaining as soon as he’s opened his mouth. “Just one thing: mate, what the fuck are you doing? Get your act together.”

He sounds tired. But this probably means Smoke isn’t getting kicked out any time soon, so it’s a relief nonetheless. “I’ll tone it down.”

“Not the bloody pranks, you idiot. Your shite. Get it together. Little France is sticking together like superglue and exuding harmony, team Hostages What Hostages will never reach a blood alcohol level of nowt again from all the drinking they’re doing, the Freedom Squad is going to get fat if they keep up their daily barbecues and the denim addicts are currently mastering telepathy. And what about us?” Sledge sighs and reminds Smoke vividly of Ryan once more. Extending a hand to someone he thinks needs it.

It’s a wakeup call. He doesn’t want to end up here again, having to ask for help while cringing in shame.

“We’re supposed to be a team, work together, stick together, and you’re…”

“Drifting”, he says.

Sledge shakes his head. “You’re hovering. And we both know around whom. I don’t know what’s up with you two, one moment you come off as best mates, the next you ask me secretly to partner you up with someone different. I don’t care what it is either, it’s not my business but it becomes my business if it affects all of us. So please. Talk to him. After all, you owe him big time.”

He had him until that last sentence. Smoke frowns. “I owe him?”

“Mate, you wouldn’t be here without him.”

Hold on.

“I can tell he’s kept quiet about this, so I’m going to burst your bubble instead. He’s one of the first Six set her eyes on because he’s a prodigy, I don’t need to tell you this, and he had a lot of say in other people’s recruitments. Looking back, he spoonfed her your description to the letter – someone who thinks out of the box instead of listening blindly to authority, displays creativity and frustration with rules, has a history of acting up and is unhappy with his current posting. His reasoning was so sound, he even had me fooled: the mystery bloke would relish the newfound freedom and use all his energy to work for the cause, wouldn’t be held back by friendly or familial ties and essentially be a breath of fresh air.”

Wait a second.

“You fit perfectly, passed all the tests and here you are. Exactly where he wanted you.”

Hold the fuck up.

“And now you decide to repay him by -”

“Bullshit.” Sledge seems startled by how venomously he spits out the word. “That’s not true.”

“It is. I was there when he presented a few candidates, yours among the files. I heard what he said.”

“No. He’s not – he doesn’t have that much influence, does he?”

“Generally no. But with you, he was adamant.”

Well.

Well _fuck_.

 

He doesn’t even know how to face him. Something scary must be present in his expression because people in the long, sterile hallways throw him worried glances as he stomps through the building on the outskirts of Hereford base. It’s not used much, oftentimes appears empty except for scattered groups of scientists labouring away or individuals buried in mountains of research material. Smoke was given an excess lab at the very end of one of the side corridors and has to sign all his equipment in and out with someone who actually knows what they’re doing, but at least they don’t ask him too many questions when he requests large amounts of sodium (for the pure joy of making it explode in water of course). Still, his calls for fluorine remain unanswered.

Both his fury and anxiety grow the closer he gets to the small space he can call his, until it’s so bad he has to stop and take a breath. He should ask for Mark’s side first. He really should.

Seeing him in the cramped room, switching between bending over the desk to squint at Smoke’s notes and then fiddling with some of the equipment is strange – they’ve only been here once, and Mark’s bigger than him so the space looks extra tiny. There must be a thousand other things he could be doing and yet he’s _here_.

When he’s done spying on Mark through the small window in the door, he enters, closing it behind him and sealing them into the stuffy-smelling room. Contrary to his expectation, Mark is actually excited about something, turns to him with a grin which makes him seem years younger and starts babbling before he can even get a word out: “You actually are onto something with this. It’s nasty and fast-working but dissolves quickly, looks to me like a more dodgy version of mustard gas but you might be able to utilise -”

“Nepotism”, Smoke interrupts him, impervious to his exhilaration. He didn’t come here to geek out. “That’s the whole fucking reason I’m here. Isn’t it? Only because you wanted me here God knows why.”

Mark closes his mouth. He blinks. All joy has vanished and he distractedly puts down his own notes on the counter next to him.

“I don’t deserve to be here”, Smoke states and feels the words burn under his skin. “I didn’t make it of my own fucking accord.” Pity, maybe? Sympathy?

“What rot”, Mark responds, astonishment and irritation colouring his voice. “Who told you that?”

“Does it matter? It’s true, isn’t it?”

“It’s pure shite. Who was it, Six herself? Doc? Seamus? I’m gonna talk to -” He tries to push past Smoke, attempts to shake off his hand when he grabs his wrist but deflates when he sees something in Smoke’s face. Maybe he looks as broken as he feels. “James. It’s not true. Don’t tell me you actually believe that.”

“What else am I supposed to believe?” The skin under his fingers is warm and soft, and he can feel Mark’s regular pulse with his thumb. Right now, this physical connection is his lifeline. He’s toying with the idea of leaving. If this was nothing but charity, he’s going to fare better elsewhere. Provided he can muster up the motivation.

Mark seems conflicted, uncomfortable. He’s never learnt how to deal with not simply stating outright what he’s thinking. “I’m not supposed to talk about this – wait, let me finish. But no, it wasn’t like that. When I came to Belfast, you… weren’t in any state to join Rainbow.” _Had no business still being SAS_ , he doesn’t say. “But you’re much smarter than you think, and you’re imaginative, and you keep your cool under pressure on the job. You just needed a bit of…”

He’s trying so hard not to offend or upset Smoke that it’s ridiculous, though his caution betrays what he thinks of Smoke’s mental state – he doesn’t seem to believe he can handle open criticism right now. “Getting my arse beaten”, he suggests drily.

Mark’s lips twitch. “…refinement”, he finishes slowly. “I tried to help, but you did almost all of the work. And then later, when Six asked me for my opinion on the fourth SAS member, I told her who I thought was a good fit and included you. She still made the final decision herself.”

_Try to stay sober_ , a very different Mark asked him half a year ago. The same Mark who dragged him to the gym, posed riddles and provided him with hypotheticals. He thought Mark was just bored but no, he was grooming him. “That’s not at all what it sounded like coming from Seamus”, he points out.

“I may have been biased”, Mark admits a little sheepishly, “I was hoping she’d pick you and possibly influenced her a tad, but it was because I genuinely believe you’re a good fit. You’re a good operator, James, you might not remember, but your drunk aim is better than some people are sober. That we’re friends is just a bonus. Yes, I wanted you here. But you also deserve it.”

He finally lets go of Mark’s wrist to rub at his face. “Okay, but – if you really cared, where the fuck did you -” And then the full consequences of what he just heard wash over him in a dizzying wave. Just to be sure, he asks: “Wait. Mark. Did you go from Belfast to Rainbow directly?”

Mark gives him a funny look. “Yes, of course.”

And Smoke wants to punch him, though his body refuses to cooperate, turns his limbs into jelly and forces him to sit on his desk and helplessly mutter: “Jesus fuck. You can’t be bloody serious, you complete and utter idiot.” Because there’s no way. “Mark, I’m going set fire to all your socks, you twat, why the unholy fuck didn’t you _say_ anything?!”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought you abandoned me. Left me behind. All the fucking info I had was ‘well shit, looks like your best friend was reassigned and left without saying bye, good luck dealing with this particular shitstorm’. You didn’t – you just _left_. Was I supposed to read your fucking mind or what?”

There’s a red tinge to Mark’s cheekbones now. “Oh”, he says quietly. “I mean – did I really not tell you?”

“No, you fucking didn’t!”

“I… must’ve forgot.”

“You _forgot_?! You’re pulling my leg. You get recruited by some fancy organisation, leave the goodbyes to the last fucking day and then just _forget_?”

“Look, I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone -”

“All you needed to say was ‘hey, I’m leaving soon, will probably have trouble staying in touch but I’ll contact you eventually’ and I would’ve been happy!”

“You wouldn’t have been happy.”

“No. I would’ve been bloody devastated.” Smoke can’t stop himself now. “But at least I would’ve known what’s up. Like this, I was on fucking nicotine withdrawal, alcohol withdrawal, and thinking the only person in the whole goddamn world who means anything to me cast me aside. Do you have any idea what it was like? Every day lasted forever, and everything was suddenly so fucking boring, there was nothing to do, nothing was fun – with you there, it would’ve been so much easier not to touch a single drop, but without you I just… vegetated. I almost relapsed a few times because honestly, there wasn’t really a reason to keep it up. It was hell, Mark. It was fucking hell, I still have no idea how I made it.”

He’s softer around the edges now, more prone to letting his emotions sway him. OJ was cool as a cucumber, never let social situations get the better of him, let insults and quips roll off his shoulders, nothing really mattered to him. In comparison, Smoke is a wreck. Smoke bottles everything up and airs it out now and then in passive-aggressive remarks which are entirely uncalled for, and if left alone for too long, apparently vents in inappropriate rants about something to which he feels allergic: feelings.

Smoke also seems adept at guilt tripping, judging by Mark’s rueful, shocked expression. And he’s possibly contagious. “But you made it”, Mark states, voice uneven. “And I’m proud of you. I’m so happy you’re here.”

They’ve never hugged before. Not _really_ , in any case, maybe an arm slung over a shoulder after a successful exercise or a half-hug after helping each other up from the ground, usual guy stuff, and the groping they did after Christmas, while they’re – well, it doesn’t count because the embrace wasn’t the main focus. This one, however, is a bona fide hug fulfilling all of the necessary criteria and it’s marvellous.

Mark smells wonderful, an amalgamation of mundane odours like laundry detergent, shampoo, faint aftershave, but together they make up a vibrant mix which is unmistakably him. Smoke breathes it it while resting his forehead on Mark’s shoulder, hands fisted in the back of his shirt and feeling tension drain out of him as if someone pulled the plug. Strong arms hold him close, encage him protectively and every exhale brushes over the nape of his neck. His own breathing is shaky, even more so now, but at the same time all the words echoing in his mind bring both relief and exhaustion. It lasts a long while, much longer than he would’ve guessed – Mark must be uncomfortable already but makes no indication of wanting to stop.

“I’m sorry”, he eventually murmurs and ah, that explains it. He was working up the courage to apologise, now doesn’t want to look Smoke in the eyes while doing so. He doesn’t blame him. “I should’ve – I thought you’d know. That I wouldn’t leave you, I mean.”

“That’s literally what you did though.”

“I was always planning to come back.”

Smoke frees his friend and smirks at his guilty expression. “Be honest. You would’ve done anything to get me into Rainbow.”

“I would’ve given my left arm if necessary”, Mark confirms with a smile. “I do mean it, though. You’ve earned this, and I just made sure you didn’t get overlooked.”

He’s unbelievable. If Smoke’s heart wasn’t singing, he would’ve smacked him for being such a dumb bastard and assuming Smoke would somehow _know_ that he wasn’t being abandoned. “Thanks.”

“Is this why you’ve been an arse recently?”

“Did you just call me an arse? You’re hanging around with the wrong crowd, babe, watch your fucking language.” Mark just laughs at that and the sound is beautiful. “Can you fault me for being pissy?” An amused shake of the head. “There you go.”

“So we’re good now?”

They should be. Technically, they are. Smoke is not going to be an idiot and hold a grudge over Mark’s social ineptitude or else he would’ve long stopped being friends with him – and besides, he had good intentions the entire time, even if they were implemented quite clumsily. The relief of knowing Mark didn’t betray him by far outweighs his residual bitterness and he won’t let his own anxiety stand between them anymore; he let it rule over him enough, weaponise him out of spite and direct him against the person most dear to him. Because after all, he cares deeply for Mark, never really stopped.

And yet.

Mark picks up on his hesitation, smile fading. He’s not going to mention it. His aversion to anything concerning this topic is - “It’s about the night I left.”

Smoke’s throat goes dry. He nods.

“I don’t have -” Fingers awaken, play with the hem of his shirt, dive into jeans pockets, pull on belt loops; he’s fidgeting. “I’m not -” Pained, he averts his gaze which lands on his notes but doesn’t seem to focus. “Can we -”

Over the past months, Smoke unlearnt quite a few things, among them relying on liquid courage, his foul mouth, casual sex and other people’s goodwill, among them how to make others laugh, feel comfortable in his own skin, trust himself and navigate conversations without causing awkward silences. And Mark’s body language was apparently somewhere in between all of these. The air in the small room feels stuffier than usual, his brain hindered by the memory of Mark regarding him like a proud parent before _touching_ him, showing affection in a way he’s never done before, holding him tight and waiting for Smoke to break up the embrace. He can’t think straight, the giddiness of knowing Mark’s still on his side distracting to the point of overpowering almost all other emotions.

He can only guess. “You don’t ever want to talk about it again? If that’s it, it’s okay, we don’t need to -”

“No.” Mark is embarrassed and still fidgeting, and oh _God_.

“You… _do_ want to talk about it?”

“James, I -” If this wasn’t an extremely personal and delicate topic, Smoke would thoroughly enjoy seeing Mark this flustered. “You were drunk. I don’t know how much – maybe you don’t remember – maybe you didn’t mean…”

Smoke is staring now and spontaneously develops a brutally honest streak, inspired by shy glances and subconscious gestures and the endearing uncertainty in Mark’s face. “You want to know? I remember most of it and I meant all of it.” He suddenly becomes very aware of himself, the alert stance, head tilted up and a little to the side, curiously peering at an entirely speechless Mark. They’re not very far apart, less distance between them than Mark is usually comfortable with, and he thinks he can feel his body heat. “If you want, I’ll repeat it.”

“No -”

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Don’t -”

“I was always drunk then, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t know what I was doing, babe. Please, Mark. I meant all of it.” A breath. A short silence. “And if you want me to shut the fuck up, you could kiss me.”

His heart starts fluttering the moment Mark’s eyes slide lower on his face, just a tad. It can’t be. Reserved, socially awkward, ambitious, intelligent, competent Mark, _his_ Mark is considering his suggestion. Smoke is vulnerable enough as it is, so he refrains from saying anything else, shallows his breathing, makes himself as unobtrusive as possible as he lets the gears work in Mark’s head, lets him figure out what he wants to do. Invisible strings pull him towards the younger man, urge him to take matters into his own hand but the last time he did so, he ended up all alone. He can’t do more than offer himself with all his flaws, all the exhaustion which will inevitably follow, frustration and exasperation. He knows he’s not easy, so all he can do is lay himself bare, open up and hope to be accepted.

Mark is visibly conflicted. The lines between his eyebrows speak of concentration and indecisiveness, but there’s a glint in his dark eyes, a shift in his body language. “Don’t make it weird”, he mutters as a warning, and then he leans in.

The moment seems to last an eternity. Smoke closes his eyes halfway through, stretching a little to meet Mark, fingers twitching but not reaching out just yet; a nose brushes against his own and they float in a vacuum momentarily, exist purely in limbo as everything around them vanishes entirely, becomes irrelevant. Soft lips meet his. It’s no more than a simple press but conveys so much, sparks fireworks inside Smoke he didn’t think possible because _Mark feels the same way_.

Despite all his insecurities, this he knows with absolute certainty now: Mark likes him. _Likes_ likes him. Enjoyed the snogging on Christmas, probably was too shy or considerate to repeat it – inebriated consent didn’t seem enough for him – and assumed Smoke’s interest faded over time or disappeared altogether. Possibly got a little jealous over Bandit. Might’ve tried to distance himself in order to get his feelings sorted out, hurt and confused, and they’ve both been complete and utter idiots, haven’t they?

When Mark withdraws again, Smoke is _beaming_. He has no choice but let the sunshine out which is suddenly flooding his bloodstream and it doesn’t matter that the only window in the room is shitty and tiny and facing North anyway because he’s brighter than several halogen lamps and this time, he won’t forget any part of it, his memory won’t end up fuzzy, he’ll get to catalogue the feeling of the inside of Mark’s mouth and pay more attention to his muscles and remember the little noises he makes for the rest of his life. “You better keep kissing me”, he threatens Mark, his friend, his _lover_ with a wide grin, “or else I’m just gonna keep talking about how I’ve literally been dreaming about you.”

They end up on his desk chair, him on Mark’s lap, Mark’s arms holding him in place, and snogging like their lives depended on it. The thrill is still there, the expected novelty, yet it’s familiar in a soothing way, not as scary as Christmas because they now both know what they’re in for. Now and then, they catch their breath, smiling at each other sickeningly sweetly and Smoke knows that this kind of shite normally would make him throw up a little but as long as he’s too busy being in awe, the thought doesn’t even really occur to him. Mark is horribly embarrassed and immensely relieved at the same time, making him officially the most adorable being in the universe, and his struggling whenever Smoke tries to sneak his hands under his shirt is largely ignored.

“I’m not good at this”, he murmurs against Smoke’s jaw, sucking slightly on the skin. If his aim was to seduce Smoke, pretty much everything he’s done the past five minutes has been pure overkill as he could demand literally anything right now and Smoke would comply gladly.

“Babe, you make my toes curl with everything you do. If you bite at my neck, I’m going to faint right – _oh my God_.” He sucks in a sharp inhale when he feels teeth nip at sensitive skin and presses himself closer against Mark’s hard body. “Fuck. Holy shit.”

“Too hard?”, comes a worried question and he stutters out a laugh.

“Me? Hell yeah.” In response, Mark shows him a grin which is half uncomfortable, half intrigued. “Am I making it weird?”

“You always do.”

“Then I’ll refrain from telling you any of the things I’d love to do to you right now or else I’m gonna cream myself.”

“Is just sitting here and kissing some more on the list?”

Is death due to arousal a thing? “Yeah. It is. And besides, you kiss like a fucking god, you must’ve had a good teacher.”

This smile is blinding and vibrant and while Mark’s tongue toys some more with his, it takes up all of his willpower not to grind against him. They’re both rock hard, his lover’s touches and kisses greedy – for Mark’s standards – and everything about him is the hottest thing Smoke has ever experienced, but this is still Mark. He stole his first kiss and his first hand job, so he’s alright with waiting a little more. During the next break, Mark tries again: “I don’t mean the snogging. I mean everything else.”

This time, he understands. “Don’t worry, I’m shite at it too.” For some reason, this seems to worry Mark even more. “We can talk it through though, if you want. Our _relationship_.”

Regret is slowly seeping into Mark’s features. “James -”

“The fact that we’re _boyfriends_ now. How crazy we are about each other. That I can call you sweetie and honey and -”

“Let’s go back to the kissing and forget I ever said anything.”

“Just to be sure – we’re together now, right? For real? You’re not going to get cold feet? This is a decision you’ve consciously made and you’re gonna stick with it?” Mark confirms with a nod. He really fares better with yes-or-no questions. “Thank fuck. Do you want to keep it secret for now? If yes, I’ll have to drive somewhere and tell a few strangers or else I’m gonna fucking explode.”

Not only is Mark painfully gorgeous, he’s also looking at Smoke as if he hung the stars while drawing meaningless patterns onto his back and Smoke is so lost from just gazing at him that he genuinely forgets he posed a question until Mark eventually answers: “Not yet. Let’s figure a few things out first, and maybe then. We should probably tell Mike and Seamus though – they’re convinced you have it out for me somehow.”

“Babe, I can and will have it out for you whenever you wish.”

And the laugh following his crude comment is one of the most beautiful things he’s ever heard.

 

Unsurprisingly, Mark does get restless after a while and suggests they take a closer look at the gas with which Smoke experimented before, so he begrudgingly climbs off of his newly acquired boyfriend and does his best to focus on his explanations. He really does try.

It’s just that Mark’s lips are red and slightly swollen, there’s a few barely visible marks on his neck, his hair is tousled and clothes rumpled and Smoke has never wanted anyone this fiercely. His accent always comes through more clearly when he’s comfortable and his animated gestures are an unmistakable display of excitement, not to mention his spontaneous forgetfulness about all things physical – he misplaces his pen at least three times, hits his elbow, pushes Smoke aside and nearly runs into the desk. His enthusiasm is contagious under most circumstances, but in this particular moment, Smoke can’t think of a single thing he’d want to do less than chemistry – this kind at least. Not if there’s a perfectly viable, _different_ thing to do right in front of him.

“Did you hear what I just said?”, Mark interrupts his vivid daydreams and Smoke hopes with every fibre of his being that he’s only playfully annoyed.

“Yes”, he lies blatantly. “You said ‘James, I’ll like you even if all you do is stare at my arse all day’.”

“Is that all you’re going to be doing from now on?”

“You love it, be honest.” And then there’s a sudden pregnant pause Smoke was _not_ expecting which has only one very specific interpretation, and now Mark is crimson and probably trying to come up with a way of salvaging this derailed banter while Smoke is wondering whether it’s possible to get a cramp in his cheeks. “Babe, it’s alright. I’m the same.” And he means so many things, not just the one Mark accidentally divulged – he’s just as relieved, overjoyed, and as much of a mess.

This time, when Mark shoves his tongue into Smoke’s mouth, it has a different quality than before, lacks the initial reluctance, isn’t slow or thoughtful. This time, it’s charged, fizzing, impatient. He adapts eagerly, leads them backwards until he can hop onto his desk, wrap both arms and legs around Mark and meet his mouth with quiet moans. He’s not rebuked. Interesting.

There’s barely any pause between heated kisses and it’s frankly unfair how a simple swipe of Mark’s tongue over his upper lip is able to make him dizzy already. He’s scrambling to get more, feel more, press them closer and pays no heed to Mark’s subtle resistance born from inappropriate modesty; they’re long past shyness, or reasonably should be. After not expecting anything but hoping nonetheless, the moment Mark shifts his weight, bears down on him and pushes him to lie flat on the flimsy desk meant to support scientific literature and not two very horny Brits, Smoke’s desire flares up hotly because _fuck yes finally_.

He imagines Mark taking him like this, just right here in his shitty, borrowed lab at the back of the building, used to research death and now being used to make him forget his own name, pictures slick skin and pressure inside, Mark looking debauched and sweaty and perfect and feels his cock strain against the fabric of his trousers, desperate and probably already wet. The mixture of a strong body covering his, the knowledge that it’s Mark of all people and the never ending, sloppy kisses is unbearable, he needs _something_ , needs to feel him, and so he tightens the grip of his legs, lifts his hips off the wooden surface and tries to make something happen with this leverage, pushes against Mark but the angle is all wrong, he doesn’t reach the right place, rubs himself against his lower stomach but it’s not good enough -

And then Mark lowers both of them back down and grinds against him, once, the friction sweet and everything he needed and he can’t help the throaty moan the sensation of feeling Mark’s erection alongside his causes. His head is swimming as if he’d gotten the best half-hour blowjob of his life instead of just a bit of dry humping and when Mark breaks the kiss, looking self-conscious and unsure, he whispers hastily: “Listen to me, babe. No one comes here, no one will see us, and the only thing I’m fucking drunk on right now is you. So don’t stop. _Please_ don’t stop.”

Holding his gaze, Mark repeats his motion slowly and deliberately and Smoke realises he’s going to kill him one day with this innocence in his eyes and the filthy things happening further down. It doesn’t matter to him at this point whether he’s making Mark uncomfortable or not, he’s going to put on a show and overwhelm him with appreciation just to ensure Mark gets just how fucking amazing Smoke feels right about now. He meets the next rolling of hips with his own and growls, arches his back, claws into Mark’s sides and really, he doesn’t have to exaggerate anything. This is fucking heaven.

“Keep looking at me like that”, he pants and sends Mark an imploring look from between fluttering eyelashes, “I want you to see what you do to me. Oh _god_ you feel so bloody good, babe, keep going. Fuck.” He’s dragging him in now, with his legs, with his fingers, desperate for more pressure, just as desperate as Mark is to shut him up because he slots their mouths together again, face burning but hips insistent. Joke’s on him, Smoke doesn’t need words to convey the thrumming want sapping all of his composure, instead he writhes under the larger body, moves against it, moans around Mark’s tongue and focuses solely on the divine sensation between his legs.

“You’re too loud”, his lover tells him into his increasingly incoherent babbling of _yes_ and _fuck yeah_ and _you’re so fucking hot_ and Smoke’s only reply is to roll his eyes back with a whimper. Mark’s own cock is unwaveringly stiff and prominent and provides just the right kind of pressure, especially when he increases the tempo without Smoke even having to ask for it and then Mark himself lets out a small noise and Smoke wants to get further under his skin so _bad_.

“Fuck me like this next time”, he demands and Mark’s rhythm stutters, “tongue in my mouth, legs wrapped around you. I want it so much, I want you inside of me, want to be able to feel it for weeks afterwards. It’ll feel so good, babe, feeling you come inside while I – ah –” The image is too much, too vivid, a patchwork of memories, dreams and fantasies, and with Mark’s racing heartbeat under his palm, with the way he’s biting his lip to stop himself from making more noises and failing, with his beautiful face and beautiful body and beautiful presence, it’s -

Between clenched teeth, he presses out: “I’m gonna come. Mark, babe, watch me.” And then he’s flung off the edge.

His climax rips through him and pulls his body taut almost painfully, muscles contracting with each spurt as relief rushes through him, his release blinding and vibrant and silencing everything around him. For a few seconds, it’s only him, Mark, and the sweet satisfaction reaching all the way to his fingertips. He’s shuddering with the force of it, stops breathing and expels the residual air in his lungs in a drawn out moan while clinging to Mark possessively.

Once the most intense part is over, he flops bonelessly back onto the table, hitting his head and not caring one bit because _Christ_. That was more satisfying than it had any business to be, considering how embarrassingly quickly he came from nothing more than a bit of friction. While he comes down still, Mark presses a last kiss onto his lips and straightens up, eyes his lifeless body with interest while running his hands over ribs, hips and thighs. His cheeks are red, unchanged, but he’s not withdrawing fully, not distancing himself from what they just did.

Smoke enjoys the caresses for a bit longer and isn’t even offended by the amused snort his undoubtedly dopey grin earns in return when Mark glances up at his face. “You want to do it, right?” Mark remains mute, but his fingertips dip under Smoke’s shirt, tentatively glide over naked skin. “You wanted to do it half a year ago. But I can wait, babe. Just tell me when you’re ready and I promise you, I’ll jump at the chance, no matter where we are, whether it’s on a mission or -”

“I have no trouble believing that”, Mark interrupts him, sounding entertained, but the earnest smile tells Smoke that he appreciates the sentiment and agrees. He won’t push it, not now that Mark has stopped trying to keep him at arm’s length and begun indulging him.

“I’m guessing you don’t wanna end up with spunk in your pants?” He still hasn’t come, trousers tented and looking like a mystery Smoke would _very_ much like to unravel. “I can’t recommend it, it’s a little icky, but I have a different suggestion.”

Under Mark’s incredulous gaze, he pours himself onto the floor before him and reaches for his belt, half expecting to be turned down.

A few minutes later, with Mark’s large shaft pulsing against his lips, quiet reverent moans in his ears, long stripes of bitter, viscous liquid on his tongue, trembling thighs under his palm and a helpless, lost, adoring expression beaming down at him, he fully realises that he’s not going to get shot down anymore. Mark has committed, and though he avoids Smoke’s gaze afterwards, pulls his trousers back on quickly, changes topics and continues to be beet red, he still allows casual touches and leans in for a proper snog when Smoke has stared at him long enough to convince himself Mark has to be a mirage and thus makes a kissy face to test whether he’s real after all.

 

Surprisingly, they do end up making significant progress on Smoke’s gadget, though not very efficiently. Bursts of creativity are interrupted by messing around with fragile and expensive lab equipment – Smoke’s obvious bliss and resulting thirst for mischief is mirrored by Mark’s willingness to humour his bullshit ideas, and though they end up coming up with something they’d hesitantly call an early prototype of gas grenades which are certainly effective and possibly illegal, they get themselves banned from the building for at least a week in the process.

If it was anyone else, Smoke would make retching noises behind their backs but since it’s _them_ all he does is switching rapidly between bouncing suggestions back and forth to improve their project and realising he’s sexually attracted to collarbones now, provided they belong to a certain person. Mark observes him with entertainment, genuine cheerfulness and playful sarcasm, plus a dash of smugness. It suits him horribly well and if Smoke could get away with supergluing himself to his boyfriend, he absolutely would.

In the hours they spend together, they don’t talk much about each other but when Mark mentions that he genuinely toyed with the idea of turning Six down in favour of staying with Smoke, he understands that it’s for the better. He’s feeling ridiculously good about himself now but still doesn’t feel comfortable crying openly in front of Mark, even if its source is overpowering happiness.

They return late to their room, utterly absorbed in one of their usual discussions and not paying any attention to their surroundings while they get changed for the night.

“No, listen to me – you can’t both agree with Schrödinger’s original intent _and_ with the fact that radioactive decay is truly random”, Mark insists with a sigh while angrily tapping away on his phone. “He wanted to ‘prove’ that quantum physics is utter nonsense by claiming there’s no way the cat can be in both states simultaneously because that’s not how mammals work. You can’t have that _and_ agree with the theory of anything quantum.”

“Would you say that it’d be like wanting to have the cat but eat it too?”, Smoke offers with a shit-eating grin and dodges the sock Mark tosses at him.

“The point is that it’s not that simple and can’t really be represented by an experiment like this. Quantum physics is just unintuitive but -”

“Lads?”

Their mouths snap shut and they turn to the other side of their room where both Sledge and Thatcher are staring at them as if they grew a few additional limbs over the course of the day. “It’s fine”, Mark informs them politely, “we made up.”

“And then out”, Smoke adds, self-satisfied, and ignores the almost tangible eye rolling from next to him. “Turns out Mark is just fucking atrocious at communicating, who would’ve thought.”

“Says the guy who developed a crush, said nothing, felt abandoned, said nothing, got _jealous_ , said nothing, and then somehow convinced himself he’s utter shite at everything he does.”

“I, at least, didn’t bloody _forget_ -”

“Shut up. I didn’t know how, and then it was too late and would’ve been awkward -”

“Are you saying you fucking procrastinated saying goodbye to me?”

The two are still staring. “Please forget I asked”, Sledge mutters, but Smoke thinks he sees a mostly hidden smile on his face as he turns back to the book he was reading.

After Mark has come to the conclusion that Smoke is merely playing devil’s advocate instead of actively denying the existence of true randomness, he grumbles some more and sparks yet another half-hearted fight when Smoke moves to climb into his bed after him. It takes a complaint from Thatcher for Mark to accept that letting Smoke sleep next to him is clearly the superior option (though Thatcher mostly advocated for silence, not necessarily this outcome), but despite all his protests, he pulls him as close as possible, ditches the blanket in favour of burying his face in Smoke’s hair and punches him in the side when Smoke wiggles his butt into his crotch a little too obviously.

 

Breathing easily is something Smoke wasn’t even aware of missing. Now that every inhale is simple, refreshing, every exhale natural and unhindered, the world somehow regained its colours. Manu turns out to be wonderful and rightfully sceptical of him, Jäger and IQ generally too distracted to notice much beyond their projects, Fuze barely talks to anyone, and the workshop therefore lives up to its name – it remains work, not a place where Marks go to start fancying their colleagues or gossip about past almost-lovers. It’s reassuring in how boring it ultimately is, though Smoke imagines his presence stirs things up considerably.

He’s accepted without objections as soon as everyone has satisfied their curiosity about his toxic babes, as he calls them endearingly (with a side glance at Mark, earning him a morose look in return), and his input on how to best construct them either appreciated or met with genuine concern. He’s confident that this will set him apart even in this group of competent operators, and the thought is soothing.

Bandit pays the workshop a visit after a while, side-eyeing the two of them for all of ten seconds before coming to exactly the right conclusions, judging by the smirk he sends Smoke’s way, but he keeps quiet nonetheless. That is, until he saunters over to their table.

“Here, I think you dropped this”, he announces, sounding bored, and hands Mark his music player. “Found it yesterday afternoon.”

Retroactively, Smoke realises the absence of it the previous day – not once did Mark mention it, and he didn’t seem to miss it either. Which means he really was too preoccupied with him. The thought makes his chest swell.

“Yeah, that’s mine”, Mark confirms and takes it, pops one earbud in and presses Play.

Then grimaces wildly.

“What is it?” Smoke leans forward to peer at the display, then nearly chokes on nothing as he reads ‘Barbie Girl’ as the title. In and of itself, it’d be hilarious enough, but Mark’s outraged and utterly _scandalised_ expression at this sacrilege makes it positively hysterical. It only gets worse the longer he clicks through the next songs, among them ‘Bittersweet Symphony’, ‘Who let the dogs out’, ‘All Star’ and ‘Mambo No. 5’.

“These songs haunted my childhood”, Mark informs him darkly and ignores his hyena-like laugh completely in favour of glaring at an extremely smug Bandit who’s fled to the other side of the room, “how dare he.”

That detail about Smoke now being able to breathe unobstructed? Yeah, not happening anymore. He’s basically wheezing at this point.

“Come on.” Mark gets up and kicks at his ankle to follow. “We’re going to find the PA system and make everyone suffer with this nonsense.”

And if they take a little longer than they should have to arrive at their destination because Smoke drags Mark into one or two utility closets to lick the scowl off his face, then it still doesn’t change their plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much [cheloneh](http://cheloneh.tumblr.com/) for helping to make this fic possible!!  
> After more than a year, this trilogy is finally finished and I couldn't be happier. If you enjoyed it, please let me know :) Or visit me on [my tumblr](http://kiruuuuu.tumblr.com/) to say hi ♥


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